Running Circles
by VoicesInTheWind
Summary: ON HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, concepts, or anything else remotely connected to Supernatural. The plot to this story, however, is mine.**

**A/N: Well, here is the first chapter; it's unBeta'd, so please kindly ignore any glaring grammatical or punctuation errors. I have the first ten chapters of this story written, and I will probably end up posting once or twice a week. Bear in mind that this is an AU story; it is also, once it actually begins, a Teen!chesters story - Dean is 20, Sam is 16.**

**Warnings For: cursing, ****clichés** and/or obvious plot twists, violence, abuse of a minor/a minor getting his butt kicked by supernatural beasties, mildly suggestive situations; to name a few.

**Reviews would be more than welcome - they will be rewarded with cookies and milk and ... another chapter.**

_When Mary died, John wasn't prepared to take care of two young boys, much less a baby. Elizabeth took Sam for the weekend and just … never brought him back.  
__At the time, John thought it was for the best; sixteen years later, it seems it didn't much matter anyway._

* * *

"_John? Are you still there?"_

John took a deep breath. He had done it again … it was getting harder and harder to focus recently. It didn't help that Mary's favorite ceramic pitcher was sitting on the counter right in front of him; it was the blue one with red flowers running around the rim, trailing down over the handle and wavering in lines around the base. John had never liked that pitcher; Mary found it at a yard sale years ago and was determined to keep it out in plain sight – she thought it was beautiful. It was a sort of game they played, really, her putting it where he'd be sure to see it, him hiding it in the cupboard or on top of the fridge, her finding it, and repeat.

It was one of many things suddenly missing from the house, maybe not as noticeable as the way the silence was empty now without her laugh, or the soft rustle as she turned the pages of one of her books, cuddled up to his chest as Dean played with Sammy on the rug. But it still hurt. Damn but it hurt.

"_John?"_

John sighed deeply and tore his eyes from the jug. He focused instead on the picture of Sam and Dean above the sink, taken just five days before … "Yes, Elizabeth?"

"_I just wanted to be you were doing OK. I know how hard this is for you …"_

And just like that, John stopped listening. She had no idea how hard this was for him. She had _no idea_. Mary was her sister, but she was his … everything. Now that she was gone, there was a hole, a gaping chasm yawning father and father, past where he could conceivably see getting beyond one day. Everyone kept telling he would, that eventually he'd move on, love again. He didn't buy it. No, John would never get over Mary. And, truthfully, he didn't want to.

"_John."_ Elizabeth sounded annoyed now. There was a lot of that going around. It had already been eight weeks, and many people felt that he should start moving on. Not dating again; nobody had been stupid enough to even insinuate anything remotely close to fact that eventually John would have to 'get back out there.' But some people just didn't get why it was taking this long for him to get over the initial shock.

Because he was still in shock over what had happened. He still couldn't quite believe it. It still didn't feel real. The loss, yes – that felt all too real. But not the fact that Mary _wasn't there with him_. No matter how hard he tried to wrap his head around it, that part still baffled him. Because she couldn't just be gone; that just couldn't be possible … and yet it was.

Or maybe it just felt so surreal because he wasn't really trying to _get it_ at all. He didn't want it to sink in. He didn't want to do anything that would give the terrible truth of her death more power over him, as he knew finally accepting it would.

"– _hanging up now,"_ John jerked back to the cheerful kitchen he and Mary used to make pancakes in and the phone in his hand. _"I'll see you in five, John."_

Before John could protest Elizabeth had hung up and he was sitting once again in that twisted silence. It never used to be silent when Mary was home; even if all she was doing was knitting or reading, she made sure it was never _silent_.

Mary loved music. She loved to dance to it, or sing along, or just hum quietly as she did whatever it was that she was busy with. Some people might have thought that Mary was afraid of silence, but John never saw it that way; Mary was just so full of life and joy, sitting in silence seemed a waste.

_Better to express yourself_, she was always telling him; _better to express yourself while you can, and not wait until it's too late to say how you really, truly feel._

A knock on the door sounded like cannon fire in the stillness. John heard it, but he didn't get up. Elizabeth would let herself in; she always did.

"John? Are you in here?" Elizabeth's voice floated to him, gentle but with that air of authority she had taken to since Mary died. She sounded a lot like Mary … she had that same ringing laugh, too. Of course, that was nothing compared to how much the sisters _looked_ alike. When John first met Elizabeth, he had asked if she and Mary were twins. The laughing response – twin bells, ringing in harmony though not quite the same note – was that no, Elizabeth was a few years younger.

The girls shared the same golden hair, though Elizabeth wore hers shorter than Mary ever would have. Mary's face was more heart shaped; Elizabeth had a birthmark on her left shoulder that looked like a crescent moon. The differences were subtle, but endless; if one were willing to look.

John forced himself to look now, as what at first glance seemed to be his Mary stood in the kitchen doorway, hands on her hips in just the way she used to hold them when she was well and truly furious at him. John's lips quirked into a small smile, but it quickly faded. This was Elizabeth, not Mary.

Mary was gone.

Mary would not be staring at him with that special tilt to her head that meant she was thinking something naughty. She would not be kissing him chastely as they tucked the kids in at night. She would not be yelling at him because he had forgotten – again – to put the cap back on the toothpaste or had left his shaving gunk in the sink. She would not be laughing at those stupid procedural cop shows she thought were so hopeless but insisted they watch anyway.

Gone … John really hated that word.

"Have the boys eaten yet?" Elizabeth demanded, skipping the pleasantries, as per usual. Since about a week after Mary died, Elizabeth had decided that it was up to her to watch out for the Winchesters. She came over at least four times a week, usually more, making sure they had food and that Sam and Dean were bathed regularly and not completely neglected.

It was just a little insulting that she didn't trust him to take care of his own sons, but John couldn't summon the energy to be truly offended, so he let her do what she wished. But he _did_ look after Sam and Dean; they ate three times a day, went to bed at a reasonable hour, and were never unsupervised for very long. But the thing was, they really didn't need much supervision; Dean seemed to have it covered. About thirty percent of the time it was _Dean_ who reminded _John_ when lunchtime was, or that Sammy needed to be changed regularly.

John nodded. He had fixed macaroni and cheese, straight from the box. Mary would have been appalled; she was an excellent cook, and she despised box mixes with a passion that often left John in fits of laughter … once upon a time.

The evidence of lunch was scattered throughout the kitchen, from the dirty colander in the sink to the empty cardboard boxes that had fallen carelessly to the floor. Elizabeth held back a comment on John's housekeeping skills. He didn't need that right now.

John looked a mess. He hadn't shaved in days, from the look of it, and his eyes were red-rimmed and sporting huge purple bags underneath. It was a wonder he was still functioning, really.

But he wasn't functioning.

John was doing what had to be done; both Dean and Sam were still alive, after all. But anything beyond that seemed to be an alien concept to him. Elizabeth had been getting the impression for over a month now that he didn't think it was worth the effort to try and go back to a normal routine, or anything resembling it.

But that wasn't fair to the boys. Sam and Dean deserved better than a father who was distant on the best of days and nearly catatonic on the worst. It wasn't fair or right to leave them here, but Eliza knew there was no way John would give them up. When she had suggested it weeks ago, just until he could get back on his feet, he had exploded. She thought he was going to hit her; then at least she would have cause to take Sam and Dean. But he didn't, he just ordered her out and hadn't let her back in for two weeks.

But now she had a plan. Elizabeth was determined to help John and his boys – Mary's boys – and she knew just how she could do it. She even thought she could get John to agree, if she phrased it right.

"John," she waited until he looked up at her. His eyes didn't quite focus, and she knew he was seeing Mary. That was the hardest part. Every time she came over, she knew he saw her and thought of Mary. Everyone did, and some days, especially at the beginning, it just about drove her to tears. But now it might work to her advantage. She would use that advantage – for Dean and little Sammy.

"John, we need to talk." John didn't shoot her down right away, which Elizabeth took as a good sign. She sat in the chair across from him and folded her hands on the tabletop. "I know you're doing your best, but I'm not sure it's enough right now, John. I'm not sure it's enough for your boys."

The muscles in John's jaw twitched. His eyes suddenly found hers with a burning intensity she had only seen a few times; when Mary died and he had sworn revenge on whoever was responsible, and the last time she had tried to take Sam and Dean. "No." he said flatly, refusing her before she could even make her case.

"John, just listen to me." Elizabeth squirmed a little under John's furious gaze. This was for Mary's boys … it was worth whatever he could throw at her. "I don't mean that you can't take care of your boys. I know that you can. I'm just saying that maybe it isn't the best thing right now."

"Yes, it is." John was adamant. His tone was no-nonsense and he had slipped into that take-no-prisoners mode Mary used to complain about – lightly, without any heat behind the words. Usually Mary and John's arguments were over petty things – they actually agreed on most of the big issues – but the way they went at it you would never guess. Both were stubborn. Fortunately, that ran in the family.

Elizabeth changed tactics. "Look, you're a mess." John didn't react. Eliza went on. "You need a break. I'm just offering to take the boys for the weekend; give you some time off. You need some time off, John."

"No."

Elizabeth sighed in frustration. "Just Sammy, then; let me take Sam for the weekend so you can get a good night's rest without waking up every twenty minutes with a baby."

Elizabeth didn't hold out much hope that John would cave – although that didn't mean she was ready to give up – so when he paused, gaze shifting to somewhere behind and beyond her, she tensed hopefully.

"Well…" John said slowly, twisting and turning the offer over in his head. It seemed … like a really good idea, actually. He hadn't been sleeping well anyway since Mary died, and it certainly didn't help that as soon as he drifted off Sam would invariably start crying.

It was just for a weekend.

Sam had Mary's exact eyes. It was easy to look at Dean; he resembled John more than Mary, though he had that same indomitable spirit that had first drawn John in when he met his wife. But Sammy … he didn't have much hair, but what little he did have was as blonde as Mary's. And his eyes were the exact same shade of hazel as Mary's.

It hurt. It scorched John's soul to look at his precious, baby boy, and wasn't there something wrong with that? It shouldn't feel like his world was ending every time he saw his son.

Maybe he did need a break.

Slowly, so slowly Elizabeth didn't seem to register it at first, John nodded.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own a Winchester rifle, either. And the boys belong to Kripke.**

**A/N: Drum roll, please ... _drumdrumdrum_ ... CHAPTER TWO! Woot! Still unBeta'd; all mistakes my own. See chapter one for warnings.**

**I love getting reviews; it's like Christmas, but without all the cold. JK - I love cold. But not as much as I love reviews.**

_When Mary died, John wasn't prepared to take care of two young boys, much less a baby. Elizabeth took Sam for the weekend and just … never brought him back.  
__At the time, John thought it was for the best; sixteen years later, it seems it didn't much matter anyway._

* * *

The baby in his arms laughed, and it was a strangely familiar sound that tugged inexplicably at Dean's memory, but he just couldn't remember who the kid was. Whoever it was, he had melt-your-heart hazel eyes and a very, very small amount of wispy blonde baby hair. His grip on Dean's finger was strong; too strong for a baby, especially one so small.

Dean really felt that he should know this little person … but from where? Dean didn't have cause to be in much contact with babies, or people, for that matter. At least, not people who weren't possessed by demons or who hadn't witnessed some hideous freak of nature eat someone, or something.

He was about to ask the baby its name – how was he supposed to know how old it was, or if it could talk? – when everything started shaking. His first thought was earthquake, but he had been in earthquakes, and this was not it.

A second later he realized that he was dreaming.

Moreover, he had had this dream before.

The hands shaking him grew more insistent. The hazel eyes were slipping as morning light encroached. Dean wanted to cry out, to tell the baby not to go, but he didn't even know his name.

The motel room swam into focus. John was standing over him, shaking his shoulder none-too-gently and ordering him up. Without even thinking, Dean muttered a 'yes sir' and hauled his ass out of bed and into the bathroom for a quick shower.

Whoever the baby was, it would have to wait; by light of day Dean had more important things to do than think about random babies. Some small part of him – the part that hadn't had his coffee yet, Dean told himself – insisted that it wasn't a random baby. He _knew_ that baby. Only he didn't.

"Dean, you ready? I want to hit the road in five!" John's voice was just a little muffled through the bathroom door, but still carried all the commanding weight of his military background.

"Yes Sir!" Dean yelled in reply, rubbing his towel quickly through his hair and then tossing it to the corner. No point cleaning up when they were moving out. He pulled on his last clean pair of jeans and a shirt that didn't have bullet holes or claw marks in it, bringing his socks with him back into the main room.

John had bought him coffee, and it was waiting on the table. No milk, no sugar; just the way he liked it.

"Thanks, Dad." Dean muttered, taking a long sip before hurriedly lacing up his boots. The coffee was scalding hot, but it tasted fine. Sixteen years on the road had taught Dean to be thankful for what he got, whether that was passable coffee or a halfway-comfortable place to sleep for the night.

Three minutes later found Dean in the Impala, trailing John's truck on their way to Nebraska to follow up on a tip from Bobby.

Werewolf, Bobby said; all the signs pointed to it. Of course, all the signs in the world didn't _guarantee_ that it was, in fact, a werewolf, but that Bobby thought it was made it a hell of a lot more likely.

Dean couldn't quite keep his thoughts from drifting back to his dream. He had had that dream before; a couple of times, actually. He wasn't sure what it meant, but he was getting to be pretty sure it meant _something_. Whoever that kid was, he was important.

He tried to hold on to the details of his dream, but the more he pressed the more they pulled stubbornly away. It was aggravating, to say the least, but Dean had a lot of experience dealing with stress. This was nothing. He had spent nights where he and John – or sometimes just he – sat in one spot all freaking night, waiting for the baddy of the week to make his grand appearance.

Dean was very good at the waiting game. He knew he would remember who the baby was; he just had to be patient.

XXX

"Dean, I'd like you to meet Harry Raver. He's a damn SOB, but a good hunter." John introduced his old acquaintance with a genial slap on the back and a slightly strained smile. He was playing nice for now, but Dean could tell the guy had rubbed him wrong at one point or another.

Dean took an instant dislike to the man.

Harry grinned, showing crooked teeth. "I think you mean '_and_ a good hunter,' Johnny boy. The two rarely walk apart. Take you, for instance. You're one of the best hunters I know, and a right pain in the ass to boot!" He laughed loudly at his own wit.

Dean shook the offered hand grudgingly. As soon as Raver's attention was once again directed at John, he wiped his hand on his jeans.

John hid a smile in his fist and turned to listen to what Raver had to say. Apparently, they had gotten their signals crossed somewhere, and Raver had driven all the way from where he was holed up in eastern Arkansas to take care of what he had been led to believe was a banshee.

"See, banshees, they're my specialty. Damn banshee killed my daughter; that's how I got started, way back in '79. 'Course, my wife, she didn't believe me. Thought I went off the deep end. She left in the summer of '81. Since then I've had nothing to tie me down and I haven't looked back." Raver was chewing on a toothpick – had been since he pulled up fifteen minutes ago – and his words were a little slurred. John would guess that he hadn't looked back because he was too busy looking down a bottle neck. That was something he remembered most vividly about that one hunt he did with the man, nearly ten years ago; Raver drank heavily.

"So, how do we wanna play this? Heads, it's yours, banshee, it's mine?"

John shrugged noncommittally. "Let's just see how things play out. We can assign whose it is once we know what it is. Now, where did you say it's living?"

Raver took the Winchesters to a decrepit old farmhouse about nine miles out from the tiny, hardly-even-map-worthy town of Franklinville, Nebraska. It looked just like any number of other places Dean had seen; dirty, falling apart faster than even the most attentive repairman could fix, and very, very creepy. Home sweet home to the werewolf – or banshee, or whatever – they were there to smoke.

"Dean." John gestured around back, indicating that he would circle around and he wanted Dean to cover the front.

Dean nodded silently. He wished Raver would go away, but the man insisted on tagging along. And now he was trailing Dean as he crept oh-so-silently up to what could hardly even be called a house anymore. Raver, however, was _not_ so quiet, and Dean would be pretty damn shocked if half the wildlife in a five-mile radius hadn't heard him. How the man was still alive was a mystery to Dean.

"Hey, kid."

Raver's voice behind him made Dean jump, and he nearly fired off two quick rounds into the guy's chest out of reflex. Lucky for both of them, he didn't – just barely. "What?" he hissed, thoroughly annoyed.

Raver grinned. "So, you're Winchester's kid, huh?"

Dean thought that was rather obvious, but he played along. "Yeah."

"Dean, right?"

"Yeah." Dean confirmed again. This was getting steadily more pointless. He made an effort to hurry things along. "What do you want, Raver?"

The smiled slipped from Raver's face, leaving an ugly scowl in its place. "Just giving you a heads up. I was hoping you could pass along a message to your little brother, Sammy."

Dean started. Huh? "I don't have a little brother."

"Sure you don't." Raver's tone was condescending as he eyed Dean up and down, sizing him up.

"I don't." Dean shook his head. He wasn't sure what game Raver was playing, but he didn't like it. John had warned him that Raver was a little … unstable. Dean could tell from the guy's breath that he drank, probably a lot. Strike one.

Strike two – John didn't trust Raver, so Dean didn't trust Raver; simple math.

They had come to a doorway. Judging from what he had seen outside, Dean would guess it led into the kitchen. Raver put out an arm, barring the entryway.

Dean growled. "Now what?" he demanded. This really was getting old.

Raver leaned in. The stench of whisky was nauseating. "You tell your brother, or non-brother, or whatever the hell he is, to watch his back. The next time I see him, I won't play nice."

Raver moved his arm and Dean wasted no time in shouldering his way past, making sure to bump solidly into the other man as he did.

The room was clean, and a good thing it was, because Dean wasn't really paying much attention. A vampire could have jumped out from behind the stove and he hardly would have reacted at all.

Why would Raver think he had a brother; and why 'Sammy,' of all names? Something wasn't adding up. The name sounded vaguely familiar … but it just hovered on the back of his tongue, teasing him.

Dean really, really didn't have time for this. If this thing was a werewolf, like Bobby said, then he and John both needed to be firing on all cylinders, because heaven knew Raver wasn't.

"Dean." John strode purposefully across the neglected lawn to his son.

Dean stood up a little straighter when he saw John coming, going into report mode. "House is clean, no sign of supernatural activity. I ran the EMF, but nothing stood out. Raver is an idiot." The last one was less fact and more annoyance on Dean's part, but John seemed to take it in stride.

"That means we have the wrong place. If the werewolf isn't here, then it's probably in the woods. That seems more likely anyway." John's face might have been unreadable to some, but Dean saw the flicker of amusement that meant he had heard and registered Dean's comment on Raver. The question was, what would he do about it?

Right now it looked like John wasn't going to do anything about it. He beckoned Raver over, quickly filling him in on what he and Dean had found – a whole lot of nothing.

Raver scratched his head. "Well, are you sure? My sources are pretty reliable, and they said they were sure the banshee was here. Maybe we should check again."

The flicker of anger in John's eyes was unmistakable to Dean, and he nearly took a step back. But it wasn't him his father was pissed at.

Raver didn't see anything in John's eyes; he just kept staring at John, waiting for him to agree.

John's jaw was clenched, and he spoke through gritted teeth. "I said the house was clear. If you don't believe me, then _you_ can stay here and double-check for yourself, but _I_ am moving on."

Raver looked startled. John's temper had probably blindsided the poor, unobservant bastard. Dean hid his smirk by turning away. There wasn't anything more to hear, anyway, just John and Raver working out whatever details were left. Anything Dean needed to know John would tell him later.

"Dean." John called, already halfway to his truck. Dean raised one hand to let him know he was listening. "Meet me back at the motel room by nine. There are some things we need to go over."

"Yes Sir!"

"And Dean," John added, in his most strict Marine Voice.

"Yes, Sir?"

John's lips twitched in what passed as a smile in the Winchester world. "Don't get into too much trouble."

Dean grinned. "Yes Sir!"

XXX

At nine o'clock, on the nose, Dean entered the motel room he and his father had rented for the night. The motel of choice was the ever classy Kaleidoscope Palace, which was, unsurprisingly, done in a myriad of colors that made Dean dizzy. Their room was the 'green room,' complete with shaggy green carpet that should have gone out of style decades ago, puke-green comforters on both twin beds, and walls the color of frozen peas. Not quite a typical motel room, but Dean had stayed in worse.

"Bobby said this thing was a werewolf, and after coming out here and seeing its handiwork firsthand, I have to agree." There was never any preamble with John Winchester, so the sudden jump from walking in the door to a full-on tactical discussion wasn't anything surprising.

Dean sat on the bed farthest from the door and took off his boots. He always got the bed farthest from the door; it was unspoken Winchester law.

"So what's our plan of attack?" Dean asked. He hoped they would be able to put whatever it was into effect soon; he had spent a few hours in the local bar – the _only_ local bar – and he didn't think he'd be welcomed back any time soon. Once people found out you were hustling them they tended to turn … unfriendly. Plus, with a total population of only about two thousand the difficulty of finding a reasonably attractive girl to spend the night with went up considerably.

John tapped his pencil quickly against the worn pages of his journal. "I was thinking tomorrow we haul ass to the state park and have a look around before too many hikers and picnickers get there. It isn't far, but we'll still need to get up fairly early. You game?"

"'Course I am; how early?" it didn't really matter how early, of course, but Dean still liked to have at least a general outline before he dove into things headfirst.

Well, sometimes; there were also times when less information truly was better all around. If you didn't know your leg looked like it had gone through a wood chipper, then it was much easier to make yourself keep walking – Dean knew that one from experience.

"Five."

Dean nodded. Earlier than he would have liked, but John was right; they needed to beat the hikers if they were going to be poking around for a werewolf.

John had already turned off the lights when something occurred to Dean.

"Hey, Dad."

"Yeah, Dean?" came John's tied, disembodied voice in the dark.

"Don't I have a cousin named Sammy?"

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or anything that looks like Supernatural - not even DVDs :(**

**A/N: And here we go to hunt a werewolf ... enjoy! I do not have a beta; I apologize for mistakes. Warning in this chapter for semi-graphic description of a victim's remains, plus cursing.**

**Please review!**

_When Mary died, John wasn't prepared to take care of two young boys, much less a baby. Elizabeth took Sam for the weekend and just … never brought him back.  
__At the time, John thought it was for the best; sixteen years later, it seems it didn't much matter anyway._

* * *

John did not take kindly to Dean's questions about his cousin, Sam Campbell.

Dean couldn't imagine why John would have reacted the way he did, but he kinda figured his was not to question why. At least not out loud. That didn't mean he couldn't wonder about it, though. And he did.

Dean had hardly slept at all; he was busy tossing and turning and puzzling over John's non-answer.

"_Yes, Dean. What does that have to do with the hunt?" John's voice was tense … and angry._

_Dean shrugged in the darkness. "Nothing, just something Raver said. It's not important, I guess."_

_The light came on. Dean blinked, and suddenly John was standing over him, a furious glint in his eyes._

"_What did Raver say?"_

_Dean shrugged again, squirming a little under his father's scrutiny. "Just that he wanted me to pass along a message to my little brother. I told him I didn't have a brother, but I could tell he didn't believe me. He said that my supposed brother's name was Sammy, and I was just thinking that I had a cousin named Sammy. Maybe he got the two confused?" Dean's voice was hopeful at the end, a question as much as an answer._

_John sank back onto his own bed. For once, Dean truly couldn't read his expression. Finally, John spoke again. "What _exactly_ did he want you to tell Sam?" he asked softly._

"_He wanted me to tell Sam to watch his back, that the next time he saw Sam he 'wouldn't play nice.' "_

_John cursed._

_Dean was going to ask what any of that meant, but John told him to forget about it and get some sleep. They were leaving in seven hours._

Driving down the highway at sixty miles an hour, Dean's thoughts fell back to Sam.

Sam Campbell … he hadn't seen the kid in years. Dean couldn't be sure, but he thought the last time he had seen Sam was eight years ago. He and John had driven all the way from Michigan to be at Aunt Elizabeth's for Christmas Eve, and he and Sammy had shared the big double bed in the guest room.

Sam had given Dean an amulet that Christmas, something he found in a pawn shop and thought suited his cousin. Sammy had no idea what the necklace was, or what it was for, but the truth of the matter was it had been a rare find. It had saved Dean's life more than once.

Dean couldn't help touching the amulet now, fingers gripping it tightly where it hung around his neck. He hadn't taken it off since Sam gave it to him, eight years ago. For the life of him he didn't know why, other than its practical uses, but somehow it had always felt more than that. It felt important that he wear it, even if the use of the thing _was_ highly limited.

John's truck pulled off the main road and onto what looked like it had originally been a horse trail. The road was lined with trees that had clearly stood the test of time. It felt cool and peaceful.

Dean couldn't help a smirk at the irony. Yes, they found a lot of fugly stuff in abandoned mansions in the middle of nowhere, but as often as not the little devils chose places of extreme beauty to inhabit.

Funny as it was, it also made his blood boil a little bit. Nothing as destructive and evil as a werewolf should ever set foot in a place like this, and the fact that it had chosen here for its hunting grounds pissed Dean off.

John stopped at a trailhead where the road ended. They would have to go on foot from here.

Dean parked next to the truck and went around to the trunk to gear up. He picked the .45 caliber Colt 1911 from the lineup, loaded with silver bullet before leaving the motel, tucking it into the back of his jeans before grabbing the crossbow and slamming the trunk shut. The Colt had been his weapon of choice for about a year now, ever since that little mishap with the Shtriga last October. Now that was one hunt Dean wouldn't mind forgetting.

John met him at the yellow trailhead marker, carrying a shotgun and with his Desert Eagle set securely in its holster at his hip.

"Ready to go?" John was now in full hunter mode, his tone no-nonsense and face set in a grim mask.

Dean nodded. "Raver not coming with us?" he couldn't say he was sorry, but it was curious. Raver had been pretty insistent on being kept in the loop yesterday.

John shook his head, but didn't offer an explanation. Dean didn't really expect one.

XXX

Forty-five minutes down the trail found a small clearing. The trees and brush edging it were ragged, as though something had been passing through regularly. The ground was stained dark and the whole place stank of blood. Claw marks ran up a tree to the left, tearing into the bark ruthlessly.

Dean lifted one eyebrow to get John's attention, nodding to a pile of leaves set off to one side. It looked suspiciously well kept … Dean guessed it was covering something.

John moved forward, shotgun poised to fire. Dean fell in behind him, watching his back.

Dean watched as John edged forward. He kept four steps behind his father; far enough to give John room to maneuver, but not so far that he wouldn't be close enough should something happen.

Nothing stirred in the clearing but the two men. It was unnerving. The silence was oppressing. Branches at the top of the trees swayed a little in a howling breeze. The wind smelled like rain.

John nudged the leaves with the toe of his boot. Dean held his breath, waiting …

Nothing happened. John dug deeper, keeping his guard up and his shotgun raised.

After a good five minutes of nothing to see, it became clear that whatever had piled the leaves, it wasn't hiding under them now. John shouldered his gun, but silently instructed Dean to keep his ready. As if Dean had to be told.

Dean turned slowly, first right, then left, keeping his primary focus on John but letting his gaze sweep over the woods, assessing any dangers. Everything was quiet.

"Dean …"

He turned at the tone of John's voice. John didn't usually sound troubled, no matter what they found. John sounded troubled.

Dean took the few steps to stand behind his father, curious and apprehensive.

He nearly gagged at what he saw.

It was a girl … or, at least, it had been. All that was left was a decapitated head, bloody and mangled with long blonde hair only mostly still attached to her scalp. There were a few torn body parts tossed in with the bones of countless other victims. A hand, jagged lines that looked like teeth marks cutting through to the bone, sat on the top of the pile. This was where the smell had been coming from.

"Oh shit." Dean breathed, struggling not to be sick.

John's mouth was a thin, angry line, his lips pressed together tightly. He reached out and poked the hand with the end of his shotgun. "She's been here a few days, at least. This must be where it keeps its victims; storage, until the next hunt." John stood. He kicked the leaves back over the remains, but he didn't bother trying to make it look like they hadn't been there.

Dean just nodded. If he opened his mouth now he was fairly sure he'd puke.

John sighed deeply and ran a hand over his face. Suddenly, he looked years older. "So we'll wait here. Full moon for another night; tonight's our last chance to catch the little shit before it kills again."

There was another clearing close by, where they could keep an eye on the werewolf's dumping ground without becoming immediately noticeable. Dean set up the small two-man tent while John walked the perimeter, laying out salt and a few protection symbols – just in case.

The day passed without event. Nothing moved in the forest; nothing was alive. It rained a little.

Night fell. Everything remained harshly quiet. No bugs chirped, no birds let out goodnight calls, and no nocturnal life stirred in the suddenly gloomy forest.

John took first watch. He instructed Dean to get some sleep; he would take over at two.

Dean woke much sooner than that.

No sooner had they settled in for the long haul than a disturbance just south of their temporary campsite brought them both back to high alert.

It sounded like whimpering. Dean checked his Colt; clean and loaded, like he always kept it. It was a pleasant reassurance in his hand, fitting snugly in the space it had worn during years of use.

Naturally, John took point, and Dean fell back a little, hoping to catch the thing when it made its move on his father. The fact that he was standing there, waiting for a blood-crazed werewolf to attack the only person in this world he truly gave a damn about, was just a little twisted, even in his mind. But it was how he was raised. You just did it – whatever it took to take the fugly bastards down, you did it. No questions, no exceptions. There were no prisoners in the war they were fighting, no half-ways. There would be no mercy given, and none would be expected or accepted.

The lonely, pain-filled cry sounded again, much closer this time. Dean tightened his grip ever so slightly, waiting for the wolf to spring.

John signaled that they should split up. Dean wanted to protest, but one look at John's face told him that would be a very, very bad idea. John was in the zone, now. That was no arguing when John was in the zone, you just did as he said and usually things worked out OK.

Dean moved left, John went right. The next howl confirmed that they had it cornered between them. Cornered was good – if they could get a clear shot. If, however, it heard them coming and got nervous, then cornered was about the last thing they wanted it to be. Animals tended to get especially violent when they felt trapped – another lesson learned through painful experience.

A third whimper – the third _sound_ from the creature had been a howl, which was completely different – alerted Dean that it was somehow behind him. He spun, bringing the Colt up seconds too late.

A gunshot echoed in the dark, but Dean hadn't pulled the trigger. Dean didn't have the gun.

He was sprawled on the damp ground, breathing hard as he did his best to get his wind back. The werewolf had snuck up on him and charged before he had time to react, sending him down hard. And damn but that thing was _fast_. Dean had hardly seen it move.

"_Dean!_" John's worried, angry voice filled the empty night. His silhouette was framed nicely by the tall trees that stretched nearly forever up to the bright sky. The moon was glorious through the gap in the leaves left by the clearing just a little to Dean's right.

Dean wanted to call back, but he was having trouble just getting enough air into his lungs to keep breathing normally. He settled for rolling neatly to his feet, panting with the effort. From the fiery pain that exploded in his left side, Dean guessed he had bruised some ribs, but otherwise he was fine.

"Dad!" he yelled, once he had caught his breath, waving one arm clumsily over his head to signal his position. John quickly altered his course and was by his son's side in seconds.

"Dean," John sounded relieved. "Are you alright?"

Dean nodded, wincing a little as the movement jarred his ribs. Any movement was painful, and he didn't look forward to the walk back to the car in the morning. Of course, they had to deal with the werewolf first, regardless. That didn't sound like a barrel of monkeys either, but Dean sucked it up. He was a Winchester; he was made of tougher stuff than that, damn it.

John scanned the immediate woods quickly. Dean could nearly hear his brain whirring as he considered and discarded different options. It took him less than a minute to decide how to take action.

"Dean, how bad is it?"

Dean knew better than to lie. "A few bruised ribs, I think. I'm fine though."

"You get a shot at it, before it hit you?"

Dean was suddenly glad of the relative darkness of the trees as he felt his face heat. "No. I didn't even see it coming, just a sound behind me and then _wham_. I lost the Colt, too."

"Where's your crossbow?" John demanded. His voice was edgy, but Dean knew the frustration in his tone was not aimed at him.

"Back at the camp."

John cursed and juggled his shotgun a little. The Desert Eagle was shoved into Dean's hands unceremoniously and without further comment.

Dean grunted his thanks, checked to make sure the safety was off, and once again moved to follow his father's lead.

Every shadow seemed to stalk the Winchesters as they hunted in the dark. The night was bright, and it was easy to keep an eye on the clearing where the victims' remains were buried without having to actually post a guard there. It was dark under the trees, though, and Dean was, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, grateful for the rigorous training his father had always insisted on.

They picked their way carefully, cautious of every bush and hidden snake hole that could trip them up and get them killed. The night was silent; still as the grave.

A twig snapped under Dean's heel. He flinched. John shot him a death glare that was only somewhat defused by the fact that Dean wasn't able to actually see it.

Something moved in the brush to their right. John and Dean both opened fire.

Howls of fury and pain tore the night, breaking branches crackled as it tried to run away. It wasn't difficult to spot now, outlined as it was against the almost unnaturally pale night sky as it reared up. The monster let loose one final, primal cry. John fired again. The werewolf fell.

Dean was breathing hard, more from adrenaline than exertion, as he skidded to stop a few feet from the corpse. It was huge … and really, really ugly. It looked almost human – sort of, but not really. In a twisted way Dean nearly felt sorry for whoever the poor bastard was; it hadn't been his choice to become a monster. But he had, and that was why the world needed people like Dean and John.

"Well, it's dead." John announced, withdrawing his fingers from the throat of what had been, moments ago, a werewolf. It was now a man in his late thirties, balding, and buck naked; so not something Dean needed to see.

Clean up was quick and done without speaking. Dean took down and packed away the tent while John made a sweep of the area, making sure they left nothing behind but footprints; another Winchester law.

The hike back to the parking lot was uneventful. It was once they arrived that things became interesting.

"Uh, Dad? … Isn't this where we parked the cars?"

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: No, none of it is mine - nothing but the plot.**

**A/N: Short chapter, but guess what ... SAM! No beta; my apologies for mistakes. See warnings in chapter one. Hope you like!**

**Please review me!**

_When Mary died, John wasn't prepared to take care of two young boys, much less a baby. Elizabeth took Sam for the weekend and just … never brought him back.  
__At the time, John thought it was for the best; sixteen years later, it seems it didn't much matter anyway._

* * *

The shriek sliced into the night like lightening, triggering a chain reaction as every small animal in a ten mile radius called out a terrified reply. The noise was deafening.

Sam cringed, waiting it out. A branch flew at his head, just missing his left ear. It was embedded a good seven inches into the tree trunk; instant death to any in the way.

_Holy_ –

He rolled quickly to the side and came to his feet gracefully. The tall ferns shielded him from the phantom's view, but it left him blind as well. He crouched, keeping to the shadows of the forest.

Another unearthly scream shredded Sam's ears and he couldn't help crying out. That wasn't his brightest idea. A rustle to his right was his only warning as the spirit threw itself at him, arms outstretched, ready to take him to his grave.

Sam, however, wasn't ready to go.

He rolled again, onto his back, and aimed the sawed-off shotgun at its flickering chest. The blast as the rock salt fired couldn't even be heard over the screaming.

The ghost dissolved, but it would be back soon. Sam had eight minutes, tops, to salt and burn this sucker. He didn't waste any time.

Sam had already located the gravesite; it hadn't been difficult. The grave was in the middle of the woods, yes, but at least it was right behind an ancient, huge-ass stone house; hard to miss, really. The hard part was getting the ghost to leave him alone long enough to take care of things. It had taken him nearly five hours of exhausting work to get as far as he was. First he had to dig, then fight off the very angry ghost, then dig again, then defend himself from the _severely_ pissed off ghost, more digging, more rock salt, and so on for five long hours.

He started timing his windows of opportunity at about the two-hour mark. Eight minutes, sometimes less; never more.

"Pacis, vos turbatus phasmatis; somnus in vestri sepulchrum." The Latin rolled cleanly from his tongue, practiced words banishing the spirit with the help of a prepared bag of salt and a match.

The job done, Sam filled in the hole and stood back. It was plain someone had been here, but that wasn't the point. No one was going to fall into the grave and disturb the ghost of John J. Lender ever again. At least, Sam could hope they wouldn't; that was one nasty bastard and he had no desire to have to repeat tonight's efforts.

His bike was stashed where he left it, down in the weeds by the river, and a survey of the area told him no one had come near it. Sam left the shovel in the grass; it wasn't worth carrying back to his motel room when he'd most likely just leave it there anyway. The salt and shotgun fit easily into the black duffle bag he kept strapped to the back of the bike, and he loaded them quickly.

The ride to Wayside Rooms was uneventful; no one was out in this respectable town at three o'clock in the morning. Well, no one but Sam and a scattering of ownerless cats.

It had started to rain about five minutes out, so Sam was soaking wet when he arrived. And then he realized he didn't have his room key; it must have fallen out of his pocket somewhere between running for his life and shoveling dirt like a madman.

"Well isn't that just freaking wonderful?" Sam growled, scrounging angrily through his pockets for a lock pick. He usually didn't leave the house – or, rather, motel room – without one, but somehow … he had.

And the night just kept getting better.

The main office for the motel was closed and dark. No point in waking up the proprietor; Sam wasn't crazy about how the guy was looking at him earlier, anyway. The closest thing was a convenience store about three miles east that Sam remembered as being open twenty-four/seven. He headed in that direction. It was still raining, and at this point he was beginning to shiver.

The lights were glowing neon white at PitStop, and the red light-up sign on the door read OPEN. A bell chimed as Sam pushed through the door and into the dry, air-conditioned space of the store.

A bored looking girl glanced up from her position behind the counter. She perked up when she saw Sam. "Can I help you?" she asked brightly, eyes roving obviously and unabashedly up and down the length of Sam, her grin widening when she at last returned her gaze to his face. She looked about seventeen.

Sam forced a smile. "I hope so. I'm looking for something to pick a lock with; I accidentally locked myself out of my apartment."

The girl – Brittany, her nametag read; it fit her, with her long fake eyelashes and strawberry-blonde hair – fluttered her eyelashes at Sam and moved out from behind the counter. She was very attractive. She stopped when she hit Sam's personal space, but just barely.

"Oh dear, well that's just awful. And it's raining out, too." She gestured rather unnecessarily toward the large window on the front of the store, and the storm that was raging beyond it. "I think we might have something on aisle four. Follow me, please." She giggled, and placed one delicate, manicured hand on Sam's arm. "Ooh! You have such big muscles, are you a football player or something?"

Sam gave a strained laugh. "No; nothing like that."

Brittany waited for a moment, her expression curious, but Sam didn't elaborate. She didn't seem at all deterred, and she was soon moving again. She stepped behind Sam, trailing her hand across his back.

"This way," she cooed.

Sam shuddered; he couldn't help it. Even if he wasn't at all interested in Brittany, he was still a teenage boy, and she was still a very pretty teenage girl. He shook it off and joined Brittany in aisle four.

She was bending over, looking for something on one of the bottom shelves, giving Sam an excellent view of her derriere. It occurred to Sam that she was probably doing it on purpose; he still noticed that she was wearing black skinny jeans that hugged her hips and thighs in a most appealing manner.

Sam cleared his throat nervously and she looked up, a sly smile on her bubblegum lips.

"Here, will this work?" she asked sweetly. She was holding out a small sewing kit. Not ideal, but Sam was good at making do, and it was better than nothing.

Sam took it from her, turning it over to get a better look. "Well, I suppose the needles might work. Thanks."

Brittany smiled. She straightened up slowly, displaying her chest. Sam looked away.

"Why don't you come up front and let me ring you up?" she suggested.

Sam nodded mutely and followed her. He didn't watch as she slid gracefully behind the checkout counter. He pretended not to notice as she tossed her hair over her shoulder and the scent of strawberries hit him. He smiled politely when she told him that that would be 'three ninety-five, please,' and pulled out his wallet.

Brittany was still flirting with him when Sam left, and he knew he'd find her number on his receipt, probably accompanied by some cute little hearts or something.

He wasn't going to call her. As appealing as a few hours of relaxation were, it wasn't worth it; Sam didn't have the time to spare when another spirit just two counties over was killing people.

Besides, he had learned the hard way that relationships were nothing but an unnecessary distraction.

TBC

* * *

**A/N: I don't speak Latin, so I'm not _really_ sure about Sam's banishing thing; it _should_ translate (according to a site I found on Google) to: _"Peace, you angered ghost; sleep upon your grave."_**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: If you've seen them on TV, they aren't mine.**

**A/N: I meant to post yesterday, but real life had other plans. I ended up pulling an all-nighter ... super fun. Anyway, here is chapter five! There will be mistakes and plot holes; sorry. Enjoy!**

**My Internet is being crappy and difficult ... reviews would make me feel better ;D**

_When Mary died, John wasn't prepared to take care of two young boys, much less a baby. Elizabeth took Sam for the weekend and just … never brought him back.  
__At the time, John thought it was for the best; sixteen years later, it seems it didn't much matter anyway._

* * *

The journey to the main road was a long one, and not at all pleasant. This was mostly due to the fact that John and Dean had not been able to find their cars, and they were forced to walk. The walk was not difficult, but both men were distracted.

Dean was downright furious that someone – anyone – had dared to even _touch_ his baby … his Impala. The idea pissed him off no end.

John was upset about his truck going missing, too, but he was more focused on the larger issue of who, exactly, had gone to the trouble of removing both of their vehicles. It was almost as though someone were trying to delay them. Why, John couldn't imagine, but he was getting a sneaking suspicion that Raver was behind it. He hadn't told Dean, but at the scene of the crime he found a penlight with a worn engraving on it; the initials were HR – Harry Raver. John would bet a thousand dollars on it.

"Dad," Dean spoke up for the first time since acknowledging the absent vehicles.

John grunted to show he was listening.

Dean cleared his throat. "Do you think Raver did this? Stole our cars, I mean?"

John was only a little surprised. Of course Dean had put two and two together. "Maybe." He replied, keeping any emotion from his voice that might influence his son. He wasn't sure yet that is was Raver, and Dean wasn't the type to double-check things. Dean liked to shoot first and then worry about the questions. That was a trait he had inherited from John, but unfortunately it had yet to be tempered by the experience that kept John from doing something stupid.

"So … that means 'yes'?" Dean prodded, unwilling to let it drop.

John laughed. "Yeah, pretty much."

Dean nodded once, his mouth set in a grim line. John knew that expression. That was the expression that meant Dean had found a target for whatever happened to be pissing him off at present.

"Dean, I need you to listen to me. Are you listening, Dean?" John waited until Dean was looking him in the eye before continuing. "You cannot just run off after Raver."

"Why not?" Dean demanded stubbornly.

John sighed. This was going to be so much fun; there is nothing like arguing with your son to lift your spirits after having to kill a man and having your car stolen. "Because we don't know for a fact that it really was Raver; we need more information. Then we go after him."

Dean's jaw twitched. "Then we go after him hard." That was a statement, not a question. John allowed it … for the most part.

"If it was him."

Dean snorted and looked away. "Right," he agreed. He hide his derisive smile, but not well.

"Dean, we don't know what's going on here. Maybe it was Raver, maybe it wasn't, but whatever it was, there was a reason for what it did. We must be aware of that reason before we go running in and get ourselves killed because we couldn't spare a moment to check and see what we were getting into."

Dean wasn't happy, and he scowled and grunted noncommittally, but John trusted him. Dean wouldn't do anything to get either of them killed. Not if he could help it.

They found John's truck parked twelve miles from the park, sitting calmly in the parking lot of a diner called Jolene's. It was unharmed, as far as John could tell with a cursory examination. The Impala was nowhere in sight. Dean wanted to keep searching, but the diner looked pretty inviting, and John and Dean were both hungry from the hike.

John barely managed to talk Dean into a quick meal and planning session, mostly by pointing out that they didn't have any leads anyway. They went inside and quickly found a booth in the back.

John sat facing the door, and Dean reluctantly sat across from him. Both sitting in the back of any room and having at least one person facing the door at all times was yet another example of Winchester law.

Their waitress flounced over in a too-tight pencil skirt with an unwelcome slit up the side and a pink blouse that showed more cleavage than even Dean was strictly comfortable with. "What c'n I get ya?" she asked. She sounded thoroughly annoyed, as though they were somehow inconveniencing her.

Dean shot her a winning smile, the one that usually began with hyperventilation and ended with whatever girl he had been aiming at in a little puddle on the floor at his feet. Emily wasn't biting.

John cleared his throat. "I'll have a coffee, black, and the short stack. Please."

"Coffee, also black, and a double hamburger with the works and extra mustard, please." Dean added.

"Riiight; coming right up." Emily said, with perhaps the least heartfelt smile Dean had ever seen.

Once she had left, the Winchesters turned inward to begin planning. Both remained alert, John with one eye on the front door and Dean with one eye on the back door, but to any and all outsiders the men appeared fully focused on each other. In many ways, they were. But there really wasn't any such thing as placing full focus on any one thing for a Winchester – it simply wasn't done if you wanted to remain alive while hunting something like an apparition. There was no telling when it might be behind you, and it was beyond necessary to be on high alert at all times.

Of course, sitting in a diner in the middle of nowhere, they probably weren't about to be attacked by an apparition, or anything else, for that matter, but the behavior remained. It always would.

"So what now, Dad? You said we need to get to the bottom of this before we go around lopping off heads, so where do we start?" Dean demanded, fidgeting agitatedly. He was annoyed, and probably still focusing on his missing car.

John let the corner of his mouth twitch up in a smile. It really was amazing, sometimes, how very like John Dean could be; the impatience, for one thing. But then, that ran on both sides.

The thought of Mary, even so much later, sent a thrill of pain shooting down John's spine, so acute it was like losing her all over again. But it was also a wonderful sensation; remembering her. John saw Mary in everything, and especially in Dean. Even the pattern of the tablecloths in this greasy diner held something of her, with their little blue flowers linked by yellow chains; it was just the sort of thing she would have picked out.

"With Bobby," John said, shaking off bad and good memories alike in favor of the present.

Bobby was the logical place to start; he had the largest library John had ever seen. And he was one of the very few people John actually trusted. Bobby would help them, and if he couldn't, then he would know someone who could.

Dean nodded. "Alright; when do we call him?"

"Well, not until after breakfast, clearly." John said, as Emily returned. She was still scowling, but now balancing two plates of hot food on one arm and bearing a coffee pot in the opposite hand.

The food was awful; some of the worst John had ever eaten, and that was an impressive accomplishment. He still made a point to tip Emily. Dean rolled his eyes and went to wait in the truck.

When John slid into the driver's seat eight minutes later Dean had his phone out and ready to speed dial Bobby. John gave him a silent nod of agreement and pulled out of the parking lot. Fortunately, the car started on the first try and without protest; whatever else Raver might have done, he hadn't sabotaged John's truck.

"Hey, Bobby? Yeah, I know it's early … sorry to wake you, Bobby …" Dean waited a minute while Bobby grouched and swore, letting the older hunter get it all out of his system. Eventually the ranting stopped and the inevitable question came.

"_What've you done now, ya damn idjits?"_

John smiled. Dean answered.

"Well, Bobby, we've run into a little trouble. His name is Harry Raver, do you know –" Dean wasn't even able to finish the question before Bobby was yelling.

"_WHAT? What're you doin' messing with the likes of him, Dean? Was this your idjit father's idea? Tell me you two didn't team up with that bastard on a hunt. Tell me, Dean!"_

"Ease up, Bobby." Dean glanced at John in confusion. John shrugged. Bobby was ornery at the best of times, but he wasn't usually one to get worked up like this. "Yeah, we were working a hunt with Raver. Well, sort of … not exactly."

"_What'd you mean, 'not exactly'?"_ Bobby growled.

Dean looked to John for help, but his father just shook his head. If Dean was so eager to call Bobby, he could talk to Bobby.

Dean sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Well, he just kind of showed up. We were after that werewolf you told us about, and he turned up saying he was told it was a banshee. Apparently, those are his 'specialty.' But he disappeared before we even found the werewolf and we haven't seen him since."

"_So what's the trouble? Gone is a good place for him to be."_

"He stole our cars."

At that, John reached over and grabbed the phone from Dean's relaxed grip. Dean glared at him, but John ignored him. "Hey, Bobby, it's John." He said, bringing the phone to his ear. "No, he didn't steal the cars. He might've, but we don't know that for a fact."

"_So what _do_ you morons know?"_

"We know that we haven't seen him since yesterday – day before, actually. We also know that he was pissed off at someone called Sam Winchester." John paused, waiting to see what Bobby could tell him about the mysterious 'Sam Winchester.' Sam Winchester wasn't supposed to exist; he was supposed to be Sam Campbell. Sam – his little, baby Sammy – was safe as Sam Campbell. John had given up his son to keep him safe, and he'd be damned if he was going to let all of that go to hell now.

There was silence on the other end of the line for what seemed an eternity. Finally came; _"He _what_?"_

"Raver seems to think we're connected to a Sam Winchester. He told Dean to tell Sam Winchester to watch his back, because the next time Raver sees him he isn't going to play nice; Raver's words."

Bobby swore, loudly and colorfully. Then he swore again; and then again. A deep breath could be heard over the line as Bobby pulled himself together.

"_Thanks for telling me, John. Sam Winchester is a friend of mine, and I'd hate to see that scumbag Raver catch him off guard."_

John was taken aback. "How do you know Sam Winchester?" the words left his mouth before he could catch them. Dean glanced at him, a strange expression crossing his face, and John realized he was strangling the steering wheel.

"_How do I know Sam? How d'you know Sam?"_ Bobby was defensive; he really cared about Sammy.

John shrugged, forgetting for a minute that Bobby couldn't see him. "I don't. Just … the last name is an odd coincidence … never mind; it's not important. What can you give us on Raver?"

"_Not much. Raver's flown under the radar most of his career, only surfacing occasionally to inquire about a hunt from a coupla different sources. I've never dealt with him directly, but I know his reputation, and he ain't the type to screw around with. You'd do well to stay away from him, John."_

"Yeah, yeah," John replied, only half listening. Bobby knew Sam … that was something he had never expected. But then again, Sam wasn't ever supposed to be in a position to need to know Bobby.

"_John,"_ Bobby spoke up again, tone reprimanding. _"How do you know Sam Winchester? I always figured it was some kind of a coincidence, you havin' the same last name and all, but is it? And don't you dare lie to me, Johnny, 'cause I'll know. I don't like being lied to, John."_

"I'll explain later, Bobby." John made to hang up. They needed to be focusing on Raver, not some kid who may or may not be Sam.

"_LIKE HELL YOU WILL!"_ Dean actually jumped at Bobby's yell. John winced and jerked the phone away from his ear. _"You will tell me what your connection is to Samuel Winchester right this freaking minute, or so help me John Winchester I will shoot you in the leg!"_

John knew when he was beaten. If he hung up, Bobby would just call back. It was comforting, in a way, to know that for however long Sammy had been out there on his own Bobby had been watching over him. And Sam had to be on his own; Elizabeth had renounced hunting years ago, ever since the day she turned eighteen and could walk out of her parents' house and away from the family business.

Besides, John really did want more information on Sam … if it _was_ his Sam.

"Alright, Bobby, alright; calm down. We're about thirty miles away from you now, so why don't Dean and I just swing by your place, alright? We can talk about it then."

Bobby mumbled a reply that sounded more like a threat should they not show up. The line went dead.

TBC

* * *

**A/N: I love Bobby, but I confess, I don't have much (any) experience writing him, so I hope I didn't mess him up too bad. If you have suggestions on how I might improve him, drop me a line!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are in no way mine. I am not being paid for this fanfic - it is a labor of love.**

**A/N: Slightly longer chapter than I normally write - yay! This is absolutely unbeta'd: expect mistakes. See warnings in chapter one. Please enjoy!  
A/N2: If you watch NCIS, keep your eyes peeled for a subtle (or maybe not-so-subtle) nod to Gibbs in this chapter ;D**

**I adore reviews. Almost more than chocolate. Mmm ... chocolate...**

_When Mary died, John wasn't prepared to take care of two young boys, much less a baby. Elizabeth took Sam for the weekend and just … never brought him back.  
__At the time, John thought it was for the best; sixteen years later, it seems it didn't much matter anyway._

* * *

Singer Salvage Yard loomed into view far too soon for John Winchester. Dean was practically bouncing out of his seat in impatience to get to the bottom of things. John wasn't so eager. The worst thing he could think of would be to learn that Sam was, and had been, hunting on his own for any number of years, and that seemed to be exactly where this was headed.

When they crossed into South Dakota Dean had once again probed the subject of Sam, but he hadn't gotten any answers. Now he was just biding his time until he could grill Bobby, because Bobby didn't fudge around things; if he wasn't going to tell you, he'd make that clear. Most of the time, though, Bobby didn't have a problem laying out the facts; Dean really liked that about Bobby.

Bobby's dog Jack greeted them at the gate. John pulled in beside a rusted red junker missing both doors and most of the hardware inside. Bobby seemed to be stripping it.

Speaking of Bobby … "Took ya long enough; what'd you do, take the long way here?"

"Good to see you, too, Bobby." John said wryly, extracting himself from the truck and joining his friend on the porch. Dean followed but remained silent.

Bobby grunted. "Might as well come in." he turned quickly and stalked into the house.

John caught the screen door as it swung closed in his face. The inside of Bobby Singer's house was exactly the way he remembered it. It had been almost two years since he was here, but it hadn't changed at all; and neither had Bobby.

"So. How'd you know Sam?" Bobby didn't waste time on pleasantries. John hadn't expected him to.

"I don't." John didn't let his face betray any of the emotions thrashing inside him at the thought of his son. But Bobby had known him for years, and he knew when he wasn't getting the whole truth.

"Bullshit." Bobby spat. He was glaring daggers at John. He briefly acknowledged Dean with a nod, and then returned his focus to the elder Winchester. "How do you know Sam?"

"Honestly, Bobby, I don't know anyone named Sam Winchester." That much was true. John's Sam went by Samuel Campbell … hopefully.

Bobby regarded John for a moment. He knew John was hiding something. He also knew John was perhaps the most stubborn man he had ever met, and if he didn't want to tell Bobby his connection to the kid then he wasn't going to. Not without some serious convincing, anyway.

He changed tactics. "You hungry, Dean?"

Dean shrugged noncommittally. "A bit; I'd rather hear what you have to say about Harry Raver, though."

"Raver." Bobby grunted in displeasure. "Well, he's a freakin' SOB, for one thing; a damn idjit for another. Like I said, I've never met him personally, but a few months back I sent him to help a friend of mine who needed an extra set of hands and eyes. The kid thought he was going after a Woman in White, but it turned out to be something else, and more than he could handle. I heard about Raver from another contact and I set them up to work together."

"So what happened?" Dean asked.

"He double-crossed his partner. Raver nearly got the both of them killed, just being careless and all. Then he tried to run off with the sack of stolen money that was tying the ghost down, never mind the fact that that left … his partner, hanging, and with an angry spirit to deal with on his own." Bobby shrugged. Old anger was dancing lethally in his eyes, but his tone was calm, deadpan even. "The bastard is bad news. The kinda bad news I shoulda seen from a mile away, but I didn't, 'cause I was too distracted by the hunt to notice some of Raver's more … questionable aspects."

"Questionable how?" Dean demanded. If he was going to go after Raver, he needed all the information he could get. Bobby seemed to read his mind.

"Now you listen here, boy. Don't you dare go after Raver on your own; if you went in without any kind of backup Raver would carve you up and feed you to a rugaru. He isn't someone ta mess with."

Dean scowled, his hand moving instinctively closer to the knife – one of three on his person at all times – he kept concealed at his waist. "I can handle myself."

"I know you can, Dean. But so can Raver, and he ain't above fightin' dirty. Stay away from him."

The air in the cluttered room was becoming thick, almost too thick to breath, as Dean and Bobby faced off. John cleared his throat. Neither man blinked. Finally, with a sigh of longsuffering, John stepped between his son and old friend, forcing both to focus on him.

"Alright, now that we all know where we stand, let's be reasonable about this." John said, eyeing Dean pointedly. Dean huffed and looked away. Bobby jerked off his cap, scratched agitatedly at his scalp, and slammed the hat back on; but he nodded. John repeated Bobby's motion. "Good. Now, Bobby, why would Harry Raver be after us? Any ideas on what he could want?"

Bobby shrugged and glanced away. "No." which, of course, meant that yes he had an idea, but he either wasn't completely sure about it or didn't think John would like it. Bobby always had been a tricky bastard, but John knew all of his ploys. They had hunted together for years, back when Dean was little and John was green and had needed a bit of help on a hunt or two.

The fact of the matter was, Bobby had saved John's life more times than was decent, and John had returned the favor nearly as often. If there was one person – besides Dean – John trusted, it was Bobby Singer; but Bobby Singer, despite what Dean believed about the man, wasn't always exactly transparent.

John shook his head, swallowing his immediate response, which would have gotten him nowhere but a shouting match and maybe a right hook. He had to remain in control, no matter which buttons Bobby pushed. And if there was one thing Bobby was good at, it was pushing John's buttons; it was part of what made him both a great hunter and a valuable friend.

"Bobby, come on. Are you really trying to tell me that you don't have even an inkling what Raver might be after?" John met Bobby's gaze steadily. "I know you better than that, Singer."

A timer went off somewhere, and Bobby seized the distraction. He turned on his heel and stomped off to the kitchen without answering.

John closed his eyes and let his head roll back. Of course this couldn't just be easy. All John needed was information on Raver, but Bobby had to turn this into a tooth-pulling session. Granted, John wouldn't mind a little info on Sammy, either, but that was beside the point. John didn't even know for sure that Sam Winchester _was_ his son. It was a stretch, but not impossible, that it really was just a coincidence.

John had noticed that Bobby avoided using his 'friend's' name. That was odd. But not something deserving of much attention; plenty of hunters liked to keep a low profile. It didn't mean anything.

"Chicken's ready; get your asses in here." Bobby's gruff voice called from the kitchen. The smell of baked chicken was mouthwatering; John and Dean hadn't eaten anything but shitty diner food in months.

Bobby had indeed prepared baked chicken, with mashed potatoes and a gravy recipe he pilfered from a restaurant in Ohio. It was all delicious, but no one said so. No one said anything. Part of that was the fact that they were three hungry men, but it also had a lot to do with the heavy tightness of the atmosphere that had descended on them. None of them really knew what to say next.

Only after the plates were cleared away did Bobby break the stillness.

The hunter sighed deeply. He removed his battered trucker's hat and began twisting it absently in his calloused hands. "So," he said, "why don't you tell me what exactly happened in Nebraska."

It didn't take long to fill him in. John let Dean do most of the talking, pitching in only occasionally to correct or expand on a couple of points. Bobby listened patiently and without interrupting.

Once the tale was told Bobby put his hat on and sat back in his chair, lifting it onto its back legs.

The silence held a moment longer. John watched Bobby, Dean watched John, and Bobby watched Jack worry his bone in the corner. John was about to speak, with no idea what he would say, when Bobby abruptly dropped his chair back to ground.

Jack started; so did Dean. John didn't flinch.

"The thing about Raver is he holds a grudge." Bobby met first John's eyes and then Dean's, checking to be sure he had their full attention. He continued. "He ain't after you. That kid I set him up with last autumn? That was Sam; Sam Winchester. When Raver met you, he must've made the leap that you were related and decided ta go after Sam again. He only waited this long 'cause I've been careful to keep my eye on him and make sure Sam stayed off his radar. Last month, I lost 'im. He just up an' dropped off the face of the earth; nobody knew where he was until he turned up in Nebraska with the two of you two days ago."

Bobby set his best stare on John, eyebrow quirked in an invitation to spill his own guts.

Dean cut in before John could. "I thought you said Raver is the one who walked out on Sam; why would he have a grudge against the kid? It doesn't make sense."

Bobby laughed without humor. "That's 'cause you're a reasonable person, Dean … most of the time, anyway. Raver ain't. The way Raver sees it, his misfortune is all thanks to Sam. See, after he ran off, Sam did his best to banish the spirit, but it wasn't goin' and Sam ended up in the hospital."

John felt his chest constrict at the thought of his son injured. He reminded himself sternly that Sam Winchester was probably not related to him in any way … but it was still hard to let go of that scared shitless feeling when he thought about all the things that might happen to Sam on his own.

Bobby glanced briefly at John, but he kept talking. Dean didn't seem to notice. "The ghost came after Raver next; bein' bound to the stolen money an' all it was only a matter of time. Still dunno what that idjit was thinkin', just running away, but that's what he did. Naturally, the ghost caught up to him an' he was forced to fight or flee. He chose flee, mostly 'cause he's a coward. From what I heard through the grapevine he blames Sam, and like I said, Raver's known for two things: drinkin', and holdin' grudges."

Dean asked a few more questions, mostly about Raver's history and reputation. What he learned didn't bode well for whoever this Sam Winchester was. He felt a little bad about that, since it sort of felt like his fault that Raver was after the kid again. Besides that, Sam was a friend of Bobby's, and any friend of Bobby's was worth his salt; Bobby always said he didn't put up with no idjits.

Dean could tell that something was going on with John and Bobby; both had been on edge since his and John's arrival. But Dean wasn't the type to pry, so he let it go and pretended he didn't notice.

After pumping Bobby for information for a solid twenty minutes, Dean was pretty sure there wasn't anything more to learn. He excused himself, giving the older men space to work out whatever had their tail feathers in a bunch. He planned on taking a drive … doing a little recon.

XXX

Once Dean left the tension that had been hanging overhead all night exploded, showering John and Bobby with the weight of unspoken words and igniting both their tempers.

Bobby stood first, shoving his chair back and coming swiftly to his feet.

"What the hell, John?" he demanded angrily. "Why didn't you ever tell me you had another kid? And why isn't Sam with you and Dean?"

John shot up, towering over his friend, despite the fact that he was only an inch or so taller. "And what makes you so sure Sam _is_ my kid? You know how I feel about family, Bobby, so you tell me why in shit's name I would just abandon one of my kids like that. You tell me, Bobby."

"I wish I knew, John." Bobby growled. He took a step forward. John glared defiantly at him. "It doesn't make any sense, but just lookin' at the kid I kin tell he's one 'a yours. He's got your strong chin, and your nose, too. He's stubborn as hell, just like you. His last name is Winchester, for cripes sake!" he was shouting, now. His eyes narrowed as he calmed down. "What I wanna know is why you never told _me_."

John wasn't sure what to say. He tried anyway. "Maybe because I thought he was better off." He admitted, looking anywhere but at Bobby. He turned and sank back into his chair. He hid his face in his hands, scrubbing them up and down in an effort to keep it together.

This was too much, it was all too much. Sam was supposed to be safe with Elizabeth; that was the deal. She had taken him with the promise to keep him safe and to look after him. It was a better life, really, and John couldn't count the number of times he felt guilty for forcing Dean into the nomadic, anchorless existence of a hunter. He hadn't often felt guilty for leaving Sam; his youngest son was better off. He had always told himself that Sammy was better off … but maybe that lie had been for his own benefit.

A hand was placed on John's shoulder, and he looked up. Bobby was standing over him.

"Aw, John," Bobby sighed, patting his friend roughly on the back. It was as close to an emotional encounter as either man was comfortable getting. It was good enough.

John drew in a deep breath, willing himself to get back in control. He managed it, but not by much.

Bobby stepped back once John was himself again. Both men shuffled awkwardly for a minute, unsure what to say now that both had spoken their piece and all the shouting was done with.

"So …" John hesitated, unsure if he even wanted the answers to the questions he had to ask. "How long have you known Sam? Known … _about_ Sam?" he forced the words out, flinching a little at his son's name. It still seemed so unreal, but the guilt was sinking in before anything else.

Bobby sighed; "Six months, just about. I knew he was yours the moment I laid eyes on 'im. I woulda called ya sooner, to yell at ya, if nothin' else, but we weren't exactly on the best of terms, ya know?"

"Yeah," John barked a laugh, thinking back on the last time he and Bobby had been face to face – it hadn't ended well, for anyone. "I know."

A pregnant pause hung as both men avoided each other's eyes. John broke the silence in a strained tone.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Bobby. I really am. I just thought it was for the best, you know?"

Bobby nodded. "Does Dean know?" he asked unnecessarily; of course John hadn't told Dean. There was no way Sam would be anywhere but fitted snugly in the Impala with the rest of the Winchesters if Dean had any kind of a say in it.

John shook his head wearily. "No, I never told him. He was only four when I – uh, well, when they were separated. Sometimes I think he might remember Sam, but he's never really asked about it."

"Would you answer him if he did ask?"

John smiled sadly. "Honestly? I have no idea. It was just easier, you know? I – it made sense, at the time."

"How 'bout now?" Bobby asked, only the barest hint of his previous anger lingering in his voice.

John ran a hand over his face. "I dunno. It is what it is, I guess." He paused a minute, and Bobby thought he was done, but then he spoke again. "Dean does know about Sammy, actually."

John didn't elaborate, so Bobby prodded gently, if slightly impatiently; "And?"

"He thinks they're cousins." John almost laughed. It wasn't at all funny, but it was either laugh or cry at this point, and John wasn't the crying kind of man. The world was falling in on him, everything he ever worked for or believed was right crumbling to rest on his weighted shoulders, but he'd be _damned_ if he was gonna cry about it. Marines don't cry, and there is no such thing as an ex-Marine; two lessons he had learned from his CO back in the service, and ones he still stood by.

Bobby nodded, as though he had expected as much from his old friend. He still had to ask; "Are you gonna tell him?"

John hesitated. Was he? He hadn't ever planned on it, but that was when Sam's last name was Campbell; when Sam was safe. Now, Sam wasn't safe. Sam wouldn't be safe until they found and stopped – killed, whatever they had to do to keep Sam safe – that bastard Raver.

And Dean would know. The minute Dean saw his brother again, he would know; John was sure of it. The last time the boys had seen each other was … seven years ago, maybe. Christmas, John was pretty sure. John had thought Dean had figured it out then, but Dean never said anything and John had eventually let it go and let himself relax. He let himself get comfortable with the vague idea that Sam was safe, wherever he was, and that had been good enough.

It wasn't enough anymore, and if John didn't tell Dean who Sam was before he figured it out for himself, there was a very good chance neither of his sons would be on speaking terms with him for a very long time.

"I don't know what I'm going to do."

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Nope; not mine.**

**A/N: We are beginning to get into the dramatic-buildup-to-the-main-action part of the story - hold onto your hats, my good people! As always, unbeta'd, and warnings for cursing in this chapter.**

**You know what would rock my world? Getting forty reviews on this story. Come on, help a girl out? Just press that button!**

_When Mary died, John wasn't prepared to take care of two young boys, much less a baby. Elizabeth took Sam for the weekend and just … never brought him back.  
__At the time, John thought it was for the best; sixteen years later, it seems it didn't much matter anyway._

* * *

The truck felt wrong as it lumbered along under Dean's reluctant hands. He missed his Impala. Bobby said Raver was always a bastard, but the loss of his beloved car made it personal for Dean.

They were moving at a good pace now, having long since left behind the city Bobby's place sat on the edge of. Dean wasn't even really sure what the name of that city was. He had been coming to South Dakota to see Bobby since he was five years old, but he had no idea what the city was called. It wasn't like they spent a lot of time in the city, anyway. As a matter of fact, Dean didn't think he had _ever_ gone into the city while at Bobby's.

But whatever the city was called, it was history, and not even a dot on his horizon.

The hilly terrain that shielded the land near Bobby's didn't allow for much looking around, which was good … and bad. It forced Dean's thoughts inward, and while he did have some things he needed to figure out, now was not the time.

A billboard for shaving cream streaked by his window unnoticed. Led Zeppelin was deafening in the confines of the car, but Dean didn't hear it. A pothole in the road was hardly felt.

Dean had left his dad and Bobby for a specific reason. Dean was on a mission.

If John knew where he was going, he'd skin Dean alive. Bobby would've laughed. Dean didn't really need either reaction right now, so he just said he was getting some air. That was believable; with three equally stubborn men staying in the same house, even just eating dinner together, tempers ran high at the slightest disagreement. And tonight's conversation hadn't exactly been all lollipops and rainbows.

A battered signpost, barely legible, marked his turnoff. Dean nearly missed it.

Bobby had mentioned an old motel, just off the highway, where Raver had been spotted a few times. Bobby said he thought it was so that Raver could keep an eye on Bobby, hoping he would lead him to Sam. Dean hoped to find some information on Raver here that might help track him down.

John would've been pissed because he would have insisted on coming along. But, for some reason, Dean felt that this was something he had to do on his own. Besides, it would save time in the long run.

Bobby would laugh because he had made it clear that this place was a dead end. Of course, Bobby knew Dean would check it out anyway, and Dean could imagine what he'd say when he found out. The older hunter was one of the most ornery and stubborn men Dean knew – aside from John, who was the clear winner – yet he regularly accused _Dean_ of being thick headed.

The sign on the door said open, so Dean walked right in. The door stuck a little, and the air was musty inside. Peeling wallpaper decorated three of the walls; the wall to Dean's right was taken up by a huge trophy case showing off five dusty minor league baseball trophies and an MVP plaque.

"Hello?" Dean called uncertainly. There was an old-timey bell on the counter, and he rang it once, cringing at the sticky substance that came off the handle. "Anybody home?" he tried again, wiping his hand surreptitiously on his jeans.

A man in his late forties came from the back room. He grinned when he saw Dean, revealing two gold teeth and a couple of empty spaces. His flannel shirt looked like something Bobby would wear, but Bobby never stunk like this guy did. Dean coughed into his hand and tried to smile back.

"How kin I help you, Sir?" the man asked, placing both beefy hands on the counter and leaning over.

Dean coughed again. "I'm looking for a friend of mine. His name is Harry Raver; have you seen him?"

The man behind the counter seemed to think about it for a minute. His face scrunched up in concentration. After a full two minutes his expression cleared, but he shrugged apologetically. "Nope, can't say I have. Sorry."

Dean wasn't willing to give up that easily. "OK, but see, sometimes he goes by different names." His audience of one looked skeptical, but Dean pressed on. "Just tell me if you've seen a guy in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, but fit for his age, dark hair and blue eyes. He's about six foot five, and he's got broad shoulders – built like a linebacker." Dean watched the proprietor hopefully for any signs of recognition.

Suddenly, a light went on. "Wait …" the guy said slowly, regarding Dean with caution. He reached beneath the counter and pulled out an abused guest log. It took him a minute to find the page he wanted, and he then flipped it around and stuck a chubby finger under a particular name. "This your friend?" he asked suspiciously.

The name listed was Harry Banshee … yeah, that sounded like Raver. The guy was even more obsessed with banshees than Dean thought, apparently.

"Yeah, that's him. He still here?" that would be wonderful; Dean wouldn't even have to leave the state. He could picture the looks on John and Bobby's faces if he came back with Raver, all by himself.

The motel owner shook his head. "Nah, he left three days ago."

The disappointment was sharp and dug uncomfortably into Dean's side. He brushed it off. "Any idea where he went?" Dean asked, deflating a little. It looked like he would need John and Bobby after all; at least for the research and to help him track Raver down. That prick had stolen his baby, his most sacred possession; the dirty deed was Dean's and Dean's alone.

"Nah," the guy said again, with a shrug. "Hey, why'd you need to find him, anyway? Can't you just call him up or something? Does he have one of those portable phones? I hear those things are damn useful. 'Course, I'd never use one myself; gives you brain cancer. I read an article about it in the –"

Dean didn't really feel like standing there and listening to some guy's opinion on the evils of technology, so he quickly made his move for the exit.

"You know what, you're right; I really should have thought of that before. Thank you very much for your time." Dean flashed a quick smile and headed for the door. He didn't stop until he was in the sun again.

The fresh, clean air of a South Dakota evening was especially refreshing after the mildew-laced atmosphere of the ancient motel. Now that he was out, Dean was sure he had seen rat droppings in there; not that he was about to go back in and check.

Even the truck didn't seem so bad anymore.

XXX

Dean was late. Dean was never late; that was one thing John had drilled into him the instant he was old enough to tell time. Being late meant that no one knew where you where. That meant that you were alone and vulnerable and pretty much as good as dead.

"Will you stop pacing, ya damn idjit! You're makin' me twitch."

John glanced at Bobby. The other man was sitting in his old wicker chair on the front porch, an open but as of yet unheeded book of thirteenth century demonic lore in his lap. John had tried sitting down and following Bobby's example, but he couldn't concentrate. Dean was out there somewhere, and it was getting dark.

John wet his lips nervously. "What if something happened to him, Bobby? What if he's been attacked or had an accident or something?"

"Nothin' happened, you big baby. Dean is fine and he'll be pulling up any second now, ready to laugh his ass off at you for worryin' so damn much. Now _sit down_."

John sat, reluctantly, doing his best to incinerate Bobby with his expression. Bobby ignored him. John turned his gaze to the road. Dean had been gone four hours, and John had no idea where he went. _Getting some air_ his ass; Dean must have hit on something in Bobby's report on Raver.

At the two hour mark, when John and Bobby ran out of things to talk about and Dean still wasn't back yet, they had gone over everything Bobby had said, hoping to figure out where Dean went. Bobby had mentioned a motel about ten miles down the road, but John didn't think it likely Dean went there; Bobby had made it very clear there was nothing to learn there.

The rumble of a big truck in need of an oil change had John on his feet again in an instant. Bobby grumbled quietly, but joined John at the edge of the porch to watch Dean pull in.

About three seconds after Dean's feet hit the ground, John started yelling.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?" he demanded, voice rough with irritation. Dean stopped, startled. John ignored his son's expression and kept shouting. "Where have you _been_, Dean? Do you have any idea how worried I was? I had no idea where you were! Did you even –"

"First off," Dean interrupted. His expression had gone from confusion to annoyance in a matter of seconds. "I told you where I was going; I said I was going to get some air."

"And you needed _four hours_ to do that?" John's voice rose. He was getting ready to launch into another tirade, but Dean, once again, cut him off.

"Secondly!" Dean matched John's tone and volume. He took a few steps forward. "I was doing research."

John glowered, clearly not satisfied. But he was more curious than he was pissed off and he couldn't help asking; "What research?"

Dean didn't look quite finished yelling yet, either, but he sucked in a deep breath and joined John and Bobby on the porch. He stopped about two inches from John's chest.

There was a tense moment as the Winchesters faced off, then John stepped aside and let Dean pass.

Bobby couldn't help a small sigh as he trailed after his houseguests. Honestly, sometimes it seemed like John _wanted_ Dean to leave, or at least to rebel. And maybe he did; John knew as well as Bobby that the only way to survive in the world they lived in was to be completely independent, even while functioning as part of a team. Because you never knew when the people you depended on were going to go away; that was a lesson every hunter learned, and Bobby couldn't really hold it against John for trying to teach it to Dean before a situation arose that drove it home in ways that left Dean truly alone.

When Bobby entered his kitchen Dean was sitting at the table and John stood by the fridge, leaning casually against the counter. The tension in the room made earlier seem like a damn cocktail party. Bobby sighed again and joined Dean, easing into his seat without comment. Dean spoke first.

"So Bobby mentioned a motel ten miles from here; I went to check it out."

Silence again. John prodded, tone still irritated; "And?"

Dean shrugged. He fixed his eyes on the table, picking with his thumbnail at a knot in the wood. Most people would have missed the flash of hurt in green eyes, the slight lift in one corner of his mouth, gone in a blink; but it was a familiar expression to John Winchester.

Dean knew something … and, more importantly, he was upset. Dean didn't often let his emotions show – at least, that's what most people thought. The truth was Dean wore his heart on his sleeve; he just kept it coded. That twitch of his lips was the Dean equivalent of normal people breaking down in hurt, angry tears. The boy had never taken well to fighting with his father, something that both pleased and irritated John; the unquestioning obedience was sure useful on a hunt, but sometimes he wished Dean would take a little more initiative and not be so quick to defer on mundane, day-to-day disagreements.

It was only recently that Dean had begun pushing back, due mostly to John pushing harder than ever, but Dean still hero-worshipped his father, and John just didn't have it in him to force his son away.

John pushed off the counter and took the seat by his son. He set his gaze determinedly on Dean's face. "What did you find, Dean?" he asked. His voice was softer now, more gentle; apology, Winchester style.

Dean looked up, nodded briefly at John, and began to speak; forgiveness, Winchester style. "Well, the guy there hadn't heard of Harry Raver, but when I gave him Raver's description he told me he had seen someone like that. Raver was there, Dad; he left three days ago."

"Three days?" Bobby waited for Dean to confirm it. "Shit." At John and Dean's questioning expressions, he elaborated. "Three days ago I called you two and sent you to Nebraska. Raver was never after a banshee; he was after you. He was hopin' you'd lead him to Sam. _Shit_."

It made sense, John had to admit. Raver was smart, that was for sure; he must have been watching Bobby pretty closely, probably had been for a while. Suddenly, something occurred to John.

"Bobby, are you sure Raver doesn't have some kind of listening device in here?" John asked.

Bobby froze. His gaze moved quickly around the room, as though checking for any such devices. He shook his head. "Nah, he couldn'ta put anything in here; even when I go anywhere, Jack's here. He couldn'ta gotten in."

John laughed bitterly. Bobby didn't seem to realize the flaw in his logic. "Bobby," he said, smiling without humor. "Jack isn't exactly difficult to get past. Your dog is about the worst guard dog I've ever seen; all Raver would have had to do is bring a rawhide with him and Jack would have let him have the TV, radio, and half the good china."

Bobby sagged. "Yeah, you're right." He glanced at Jack, who was sleeping in the hallway, completely oblivious to his horrific failing.

Sharp as ever, Dean spoke up. "So what are we doing sitting here? Let's find the bug and get rid of it."

This was, of course, the only logical course of action, and they set to it immediately.

A sweep of the house revealed not one, but _five_ listening devices planted everywhere from Bobby's bathroom – "What the hell? 'S he some kinda pervert, too?" – to the kitchen, hidden cleverly inside the spice cabinet, angled out where the wood was warped and the door didn't quite close.

Bobby was beyond pissed. John couldn't help feeling a little bit defeated. Raver was clearly much more intelligent – not to mention capable – than they had at first given him credit for … and more obsessed.

"Now what?" Dean asked, once they were fairly certain they were indeed the only ones listening. They were all sitting on the porch; it was the easiest room to search, and the only place at Bobby's they were one hundred percent sure was safe.

"Now we call Sam; he needs to know what Raver is up to."

John wasn't at all sure that was a good idea, but he didn't think he was in any position to argue with Bobby. Part of his apprehension, he knew, was just nerves about Dean's reaction should he and Sammy meet, as they no doubt would eventually – it was just a question of how long John could put it off.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: On Wikipedia it says Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and Warner Bros. Television, and Wikipedia never lies ... so I guess it isn't mine.**

**A/N: It seems the chapters with Sam tend to be shorter. Oh well. This is unbeta'd and, not only that, revisions were made very late at night, so I apologize for mistakes.**

**I'm not gonna ask you for reviews ... but if you wanted to take the initiative and tell me what you thought, that'd be very cool.**

_When Mary died, John wasn't prepared to take care of two young boys, much less a baby. Elizabeth took Sam for the weekend and just … never brought him back.  
__At the time, John thought it was for the best; sixteen years later, it seems it didn't much matter anyway._

* * *

Sam was running for his life when his cell phone rang. He would have at least checked the caller ID, but the ground chose that moment to embrace him and next thing he knew dirt and small rocks were grinding into his skin as he tried desperately – pointlessly – to keep his footing on the uneven terrain.

He pulled himself back onto unsteady feet, swaying for a moment. Silhouettes of trees danced in his vision and his stomach churned. Maybe going after a cult of psychopaths all on his lonesome hadn't been his best idea. In his defense, not even Quincy had suspected they might be using wild dogs to catch their victims. Though, in retrospect, it fit perfectly with everything else they had found out.

Ingrid, North Dakota had a problem; a big problem. A problem that had been kidnapping children and then leaving them sliced, diced, and branded in the foothills near town. All signs pointed to a cult; the brandings made it easy to pick out their exact beliefs, and nothing supernatural had registered when Quincy came through a week ago. But two kids had disappeared so far and, supernatural or not, Sam didn't intend to let that number rise. Fortunately, Quincy was of the same mind and had set him up in town with a friend who was more than happy to help flush out the bastards responsible.

If there was one thing that pissed Sam off, it was humans playing with things they didn't understand; it always ended messy. He hated having to off real people, but the job description was to stop evil, and, to Sam, that included human evil, when there simply wasn't any other way.

Sam glanced back, cursing at the drastically reduced space between him and the dogs.

The phone was still ringing, the bland, generic tone blasting the silence. That distraction took a distance second place to the probably-rabid canines. The dogs were getting closer. Fortunately, so was Ingrid; soon Sam would be back in town and under the streetlights, where the dogs – hopefully – wouldn't dare follow. All of the victims had been taken while outside the city limits, and Sam prayed that wasn't simply a coincidence.

A shot rang out, followed immediately by surprised yelps and Sam could only guess one of the dogs had been hit.

The shooter might not be aiming for him, but Sam dropped to the ground anyway, panting. His legs felt like jello from running the five miles back to town. He forced himself to roll to his knees, though, and take a look around. He kept low and still as he scanned the area.

He had finally come to the edge of town; the first buildings were about fifty yards away. The dogs could be seen in the distance, retreating quickly but not without protest. One was moving slow, probably injured. A lone figure stood defiantly in the road just thirty feet from where Sam was crouched, shotgun still poised to fire.

"Hey!" the shout could only be directed at Sam, as there wasn't anyone else in sight. "You OK there?"

Sam climbed stiffly to his feet. Everything ached. He lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender and called back; "I'm fine. Mind if I approach?" he was going for friendly but his voice just sounded out-of-breath and didn't carry well. Not much help for that until he got his wind back, though.

The shooter must have heard him, because the gun lowered. "Yeah, come on over." They replied.

Sam wasted no time in complying; sparing only a moment to groan as tired muscles stretched uncomfortably, he closed the distance quickly and soon his savior was visible under the dim yellow lights of Ingrid.

"Thanks for taking care of those dogs for me." Sam said, as soon as he was near enough not to shout. He slid on a pleasant smile and made sure to remain loose and mobile. Saving his life didn't mean she didn't have ulterior motives.

The girl with the shotgun glared at him. She was really more of a woman, about twenty or twenty-two. Her piercing blue eyes ran up and down, taking him in for a moment before replying. "You dumbass, you shouldn't have been up on Bennett's Ridge at all. Don't you have any brains?"

Sam blinked. The woman scowled. Sam spoke; "Um, sorry?"

"You have a hearing problem, too? I said only idiots go up on Bennett's Ridge." She growled impatiently. "So what were you doing up there, mister idiot?"

Sam smiled; he couldn't help it. The way she said 'idiot' reminded him fiercely of a friend of his. "I'm not exactly from around here." He offered, hoping it would be enough for her to cut him some slack.

"I'll say." She didn't look at all appeased, but she stuck out a hand. Sam took it. "I'm Valerie."

"Sam."

"Well, _Sam_, mind telling me what you were doing in Bennett's Ridge at this hour?"

Sam shrugged. "Sightseeing?" it was more question than answer, and clearly not the response Valerie was looking for.

Valerie snorted, shifting her weight back and dropping the gun to her side. "Yeah, right. Once more, just for kicks: What were you doing in Bennett's Ridge tonight?"

Sam hesitated. Everyone in town knew about the kids going missing; it was hard for news like that not to spread, especially in a small town like this. But knowing and wanting to help were two completely separate things, and Bennett's Ridge _was_ technically off-limits this time of year, so all it would take was Valerie reporting Sam to the sheriff and his chance at finding this cult before the next three-quarter moon went down to almost nothing. If the cult wasn't stopped before the next ritual moon, another child would die. That wasn't an acceptable outcome.

Just as Sam decided to lie again, Valerie spoke up.

"You were looking for those kid-stealing bastards, weren't you?" her tone was shrewd, meaning she had already come to her own conclusions and the actual asking was just a formality.

Sam's head snapped up, his hazel eyes meeting her blue ones and searching for any signs of insincerity. He found none. It seemed she wanted to help, after all.

Sam nodded. "Yeah."

Valerie's expression was thoughtful as she once again looked him over, but this time it was more contemplative than accusatory. "OK," she said at last. "I think I can help." And without another word she turned abruptly on her heel and headed into town. Sam had little choice but to follow.

Valerie took Sam into the very heart of town, never slowing her pace until they reached their destination. She had stopped outside what looked like a bait and tackle shop. Sam had noticed the building when in town before, but never paid it any attention. "This is me. Come on in."

Sam thought about saying no; after all, what did he really know about this girl? Not a lot, admittedly, but Sam felt inclined to trust her – to a point. She had saved his life tonight, and she seemed pretty OK, if a little bossy and in-your-face. She seemed concerned about the kids.

Sam stepped carefully over the threshold and into the dark room beyond.

The lights came on, and Sam could see that it wasn't a bait shop at all; it was a restaurant. The wall opposite from Sam was decorated on the top half with a mural, depicting two men and a young girl fishing on a serene river; the menu was nailed to the lower half of the wall – all seafood. Mounted fish and posters from assorted sports magazines dotted the other walls, distracting from a peeling paint job. A long bar ran on Sam's left as he walked in, cracked red leather stools pushed up close for the night.

"You own this place?" Sam asked with polite interest.

Valerie grinned, and it struck Sam how pretty she was when she smiled. Her whole demeanor seemed to have relaxed now that she was back in her own domain. She tossed the shotgun onto the counter and slipped behind the bar. "Well, technically my dad owns it, but I run it for him. He and my uncle – God rest his soul – opened this place nearly twenty years ago. That's the three of us, over there on the wall." She explained, nodding to the mural.

Sam glanced again at the river scene. Now that he was looking for it, the girl did bear a striking resemblance to Valerie. One of the men shared her blue eyes and smooth chestnut hair; Sam guessed he must be her father. The other man had curly hair of the same color and a wide smile; her uncle.

"Would you like anything to eat? We always have extra food around; one of my father's rules. You just never know when a hungry mouth is gonna turn up, you know?" Valerie offered kindly.

Sam walked over to the bar and pulled out a stool to sit on. "No, I'm fine, thank you."

"Suit yourself." Valerie shrugged lightly and flipped on the radio. A newscaster was just finishing up the evening report.

"_I'll say again, the suspect is male, in his late teens, and has shaggy brown hair and grey eyes. Anyone who sees this individual should call the police immediately. Do not approach the suspect, as he is armed and dangerous. I repeat; the suspect is armed and dangerous."_

Valerie's eyes met Sam's. She went for the shotgun. She was quick. Sam was quicker.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural, I would be both rich and famous. I am neither rich nor famous.**

**A/N: Sorry for the late update. I totally meant to post this on Thursday ... Friday ... Saturday ... but real life had other plans. The good news? I still plan on posting a chapter on Monday, so you'll get two chapters back to back! Yay! As per usual, apologies for mistakes, and for Bobby's foul mouth. There is actually rather a lot of cursing in this chapter...**

**Please review!**

_When Mary died, John wasn't prepared to take care of two young boys, much less a baby. Elizabeth took Sam for the weekend and just … never brought him back.  
__At the time, John thought it was for the best; sixteen years later, it seems it didn't much matter anyway._

* * *

"Valerie, I'm telling you, it wasn't me. That guy they're after? He isn't me."

"Then why'd you go for the gun? If you're so innocent, then why are you holding a gun on me, huh?" Valerie was glaring daggers. Sam had one of those _if looks could kill _moments.

Sam sighed. "Because _you_ were going for the gun; I'm sorry I have to do this, but I really don't have time to deal with the police just now."

Valerie scoffed. She shifted her weight. Sam moved the gun just enough to remind her he was in charge.

"If you're innocent then why don't you want to talk to the police? If it were me, I'd be eager to get things cleared up as quickly as possible." She had a point. Too bad it wasn't that simple.

Sam started backing away. He knew she would call the cops the instant he left, but there really wasn't any help for that. He kept his gaze leveled with hers. "It's complicated." He said.

"Really? Seems pretty straightforward to me; you're wanted by the police, but you say they have the wrong man. Everything could be taken care of with a single phone call."

"Yeah, well, feel free to make that call; just as soon as I leave."

Valerie's eyes narrowed. "I will." She promised darkly.

Sam was at the door now. He glanced behind to check and make sure the street was deserted. That was a bad call.

Valerie body-slammed him – how she moved from behind the counter to right on top of him so quick Sam wasn't sure – sending Sam through the door and sprawling out into the street. The gun skittered away into the night. The sound of the glass shattering was enough to wake everybody on the block, and lights began to flicker on all around, coupled with angry shouts from unseen sources and demands to know what was going on.

Sam cursed and fumbled for his feet. Valerie was on him again just as he came fully upright, and _damn_ but she didn't hit like a girl; at least not in the traditional sense.

All the air left Sam's lungs as a strong punch to his solar plexus landed, doubling him over. A sweeping blow to the back of his legs knocked him to the ground again. Valerie had obviously learned to fight somewhere, and she was kicking Sam's ass.

Sam hit the ground hard. He saw stars for a moment and everything swam in and out of focus. The streetlights, hardly bright enough to see by, were suddenly blinding as he tried to get his bearings. He shook the last of the fuzziness from his eyes just in time to react to another attack.

Valerie came at him with a kick. There was a moment, a tiny fragment in time, where she was balanced precariously on one leg; Sam seized that moment. He grabbed her foot, threw his body around, and scissored her supporting leg between both his of own. Even concussed and hurting, he couldn't forget his training, and rule number one had _always_ been to never give in; even when you were beat, there was a chance … if you were willing to take it.

It was a testament to whatever training Valerie had obviously had that she didn't cry out when she fell, throwing her arms back in an attempt to break her fall. Something snapped when she landed, and Sam would bet her wrist was broken. It didn't seem to slow her down any.

Sam quickly disentangled himself from Valerie and rolled over and to his feet. He turned to face his adversary, but found her already up, smug grin stretched across her face, as though just waiting for Sam to attack again, maybe even _hoping_ he would attack again, because she was sure she could take him down.

By now Sam was breathing hard, and his head ached like the worst hangover where it had collided with the asphalt. Even before fighting Valerie he had hurt pretty much all over from his run-in with the wild dogs, and this certainly wasn't helping matters. He gulped in air through lungs ragged with the efforts of the night, and tried not to let Valerie see how much trouble he was having staying on his feet.

Valerie had both hands up, right foot back, standing in a classic fighter's stance. "What's the matter; afraid to hit a girl?" she taunted. She took a clean step forward, keeping light on her feet. She was just mocking him now, Sam knew, and it was as annoying as it was disturbing. The girl was either crazy, or … well, crazy.

Sam took a mimicking step back, but it wasn't nearly as graceful as he would have liked. The concussion was throwing off his balance. "Not at all, but I try not to if I can help it; I do have _some_ manners."

Valerie feinted right. Sam blocked her jab and moved to get her in a headlock, but she ducked.

A noise from across the street distracted Sam. Someone was coming; a door was thrown open and an angry yell sounded. Sam should have known better than to turn and look, but his reflexes were still sluggish and everything was hazy.

He saw a glimpse of a man in his thirties, clothed in only his neon green boxers, coming towards him at a run; then Valerie hit him.

This time, Sam didn't get back up.

XXX

As the fourth call rang out, finally going to voicemail, John Winchester's hand slammed into Bobby Singer's coffee table with enough force to knock the precarious stacks of research to the floor. No one blamed him; they were all on edge.

Dean sighed and rubbed a hand across stinging eyes. "Maybe something happened to him. You said he was on a hunt?" he half-turned to Bobby for confirmation.

Bobby grunted, his focus still on the cordless phone in his hand. It just wasn't like Sam to not answer his phone. If the boy was going to be somewhere he couldn't be reached or bothered, he turned it off; he never,_ never_, in the nearly two years Bobby had known him, left it on but failed to pick up.

John was just as agitated as Bobby. He had never met this Sam Winchester; the last time he had seen Sam was when he was still little Sammy, crawling around in diapers. This Sammy, the one that Bobby knew, wasn't John's Sam … Mary's Sam … John didn't even know what this Sam looked like, or what he liked to eat. The only thing he knew was Sam's birthday – May second – and that he had Mary's eyes.

But this was still his son, by blood and by this feeling of slowly suffocating as scenarios played out in John's head of what might have happened on the other end of the unresponsive cell phone.

Desperate for a distraction, John turned his thoughts to what might have led Sam to where he was now.

Bobby said Sam was trained well, and everything he didn't already know he absorbed like a sponge. That sounded like the Sam John remembered from holidays at Elizabeth's … holidays he stopped attending years ago when it became more than clear the kid was better off where he was.

With a sigh, John carefully steered his thoughts away from that track as well, knowing it would only lead to _what ifs_ no one could answer.

So the kid was a fast learner, and a damn good hunter, even at his young age. From what Bobby had said, more in-between-the-lines than the outright facts he gave, John summarized that Bobby had not taught Sam about the Supernatural, which meant that someone else _had_.

John didn't think it was Elizabeth. Elizabeth hated the hunting life, and there was no way she'd expose Sam to any part of it. Of course, Elizabeth still had friends who hunted; John remembered one in particular Mary and Eliza had both been close to, though at the time they told him they met at a creative writing seminar. That was before John knew anything about his wife's previous way of life, but after Mary's death Elizabeth filled him in on everything she knew about the supernatural, including all of her contacts in the hunting world.

"Bobby …" John kept his gaze fixed on the rug, a part of him still lost in his thoughts. "Do you know anyone named Lauren Richards? She's a hunter; not sure where she's living now, but she used to be based out of Lawrence." John didn't voice what was quite clearly implied; she knew Mary.

Bobby sighed deeply. "Yeah, I know of her."

John looked up at the hesitance in Bobby's tone. "That's good." He said slowly. "Do you know where she is now?" he asked hopefully.

The trucker's hat came off and started twisting in Bobby's hands. "Yeah," Bobby said again, his voice heavy with sadness.

John was about to press further, though he could guess where this was going, when Bobby spoke again.

"I helped bury her 'bout seven months ago; killed by a Wendigo."

There was silence for a minute that dragged into five. The only sound was the clock ticking and Jack whining softly in his sleep. It happened all the time; being a hunter was pretty much an advance on your death certificate. But they all observed a moment of stillness for a fallen comrade.

Dean cleared his throat, drawing sharp glances from both John and Bobby. "Why, uh, why do you need to know about her, Dad? Who is she?" he asked curiously.

John shook his head. "I thought she might be able to lead us to Sam, but obviously not."

"Wait …" Bobby put his hat back on slowly, his eyes unfocused as he thought.

John and Dean waited with something that might loosely be described as patience until Bobby finally looked up. The weathered hunter was grinning brilliantly; the expression caused both other men to pause, unused to the … twinkle, for lack of a better word, that filled his eyes as he radiated pure triumph.

Without a word, Bobby jumped up and ran from the room, knocking a two-hundred year-old tome to the floor in his haste without bothering to pick it up.

With a muttered curse, John followed, Dean on his heels all the way up the stairs. The extremely un-Bobby-like behavior had them both more than a little concerned. Possession wasn't just something they did in the movies when you were a hunter, and John was about two steps away from splashing his friend with holy water and praying like hell to anyone listening that Bobby wouldn't react, except maybe with annoyance at being wet and anger that John could be such a 'damn idjit'.

They found Bobby in the back bedroom, the one Dean usually slept in when they stayed the night and which doubled as a sort of office in the meantime.

"Singer!" John snapped, hanging on the doorframe as he leaned in. "What the hell is going on?"

Bobby turned to look at the Winchester men crowding the doorway; he was still grinning. "Found it!" he announced. Before John or Dean could ask, Bobby muscled his way past them and back down the stairs, his guests following with less than good grace at all the cryptic secrecy.

"Bobby, what is going on?" Dean asked, once they were back where they had started.

Bobby just waved him off, snatching the phone from the coffee table and punching in a number. John would have demanded to know what Bobby was up to, but his friend held up a hand to silence him. John sat down heavily on the couch, sinking into the cushions; no point in being uncomfortable, because this was probably going to take a while. Dean followed suit, though with less acceptance than his father; his leg bounced as he sat perched on the armrest, eyes glued to the back of Bobby's head.

After two rings someone picked up on the other end of the line, and Bobby's grin dropped away, replaced by the scowl they were all more familiar with.

"_Quincy_! You damn, frikin', retarded _idjit_! What the hell have you done now, you jackass!"

John's eyebrows shot up. Dean glanced across to his father, but John shook his head; he didn't know any Quincy, either.

Quincy said something, but he wasn't speaking loudly enough for John or Dean to overhear. Bobby listened for a few seconds, and then cut him off. "No, _you_ listen, you piece of cockroach shit! I told_ you_ to take care of it, not send a kid in after 'em!"

John stood. Some hunter had sent his son after … what? He stepped into Bobby's line of sight, holding his hand out for the phone. Bobby shook his head and turned away.

"I _told_ ya they were!" Bobby growled. He let out a stream of profanities that had even John impressed. "Yeah, well, that's what happens when yer a damn idjit, ya damn idjit!" a slight pause as Quincy defended himself, then – "Well, where is he now? And don't you dare say you don't know!"

Three minutes to let Bobby sort things out seemed more than generous in John Winchester's faintly panicked mind, and he took a resolute step forward, intent on seizing the phone and finding out for himself just what the hell was going on.

Bobby abruptly cursed again, pulling the phone from his ear even as the sounds of Quincy pleading for advice and leniency drifted through. Before John could make a grab for the phone, it was turned off and thrown onto the couch.

"Damn cordless things," Bobby growled, "not nearly as satisfyin' to hang up when there's nothin' ta slam."

"Bobby!" John yelled. Singer turned to him, one eyebrow lifted in surprise. "Would you _please_ tell me who that was? And where is Sam?"

Bobby hesitated, eyes roving the room, landing on a diagram for a charm against dybbuk possession hanging on the far wall. After a moment, he sighed and leveled his gaze with John's. "Quincy is a hunter, young an' headstrong, but not a bad egg, far as I know. I told 'im about a cult that's been growin' over in Ingrid. I woulda taken care of it myself, but I've been busy with that haunting an' this needed to be done before the next three-quarter moon. Quincy said he'd take care of it."

"And?" John prodded.

"And," Bobby continued with another sigh, "He told Sam to check it out. Said he was busy with his own hunt, and Sam was willin' an' eager to get right to it, so he let 'im."

Both of the older men fell silent, thinking on the implications of an inexperienced kid like Sam going up against a cult by himself. The odds weren't good.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Dean demanded, breaking the tense silence. "Let's haul ass to Ingrid!"

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Nope. I am not Eric Kripke, and, therefore, I don't own Supernatural. But hey, that's just life.**

**A/N: I think this is the longest chapter I've ever written ... WHOO! :D I've been typing like mad for the past hour, revising this, adding that, so please prepare for more mistakes than usual. Enjoy! See warnings in chapter one.**

**Please review!**

_When Mary died, John wasn't prepared to take care of two young boys, much less a baby. Elizabeth took Sam for the weekend and just … never brought him back.  
__At the time, John thought it was for the best; sixteen years later, it seems it didn't much matter anyway._

* * *

Bobby had filled John and Dean in on the cult's MO on the way to the town, via cell phones, since John had insisted on taking two cars "Just in case …" John didn't expect much trouble, but being prepared was never a bad thing, especially when humans were concerned; adding a human element to any equation meant adding an element of uncertainty, and John had learned long ago to ignore the odds and focus on worst case scenarios.

Ingrid was an unassuming town, small and dainty. It had all of the basics; a cozy, probably family-run hotel, a grocery store, a scattering of houses and apartment buildings – it seemed to be an unspoken law that you _must_ have window planters hanging from _every_ window – and a restaurant … with a smashed-in front door. John, Bobby, and Dean went there first.

A man, a woman in her early twenties, and two sleepy-eyed police officers were gathered around the storefront. One of the officers had his notebook out while the other one asked the girl questions. The man seemed to be there mostly for moral support; he had an arm around the girl's shoulders and looked about old enough to be her father.

Bobby broke off from John and Dean and slipped away behind the store, hoping to pick up some clues about what happened that the police might not want to share with passing strangers.

John walked confidently up to the scene, Dean following just behind him.

"Good evening, Officers; what happened here?" John's tone was no-nonsense and had a ring of authority. All four people looked up at him in confusion. Dean smirked.

The taller of the police glanced awkwardly between the two newcomers, his mouth opening and closing a few times without sound. "Who are you?" he asked finally. The effort he was putting into sounding commanding was almost painful to Dean, who prided himself on his subtlety in a con.

John puffed himself up arrogantly. "_We_ are with the State troopers; Officers Brandon and Harshaw. Who are _you_?"

The shorter policeman shouldered his way past what was must have been the rookie. "I'm Officer Kelly, this is Officer North. What are you doing in the area, Officers?"

"Nothing in particular; just finished a drug bust over in Logan County. Harshaw here has been undercover for the last three months; we were on our way home when we saw lights on and thought we'd check it out. I thought it might be kids." If Dean hadn't known for a fact John was lying out of his ass, he would've believed his father. The small-town cops certainly bought the story; hook, line, and sinker.

Kelly nodded sagely. His double chin waggled as his head bobbed up and down. "Ah, yeah; I worked undercover for a while, back in Logan County, actually. Tell me, is Pete Runner still there? He was a card."

John shook his head. His expression fell ten feet. "No, no, he's not there anymore. He was gone before I joined the troopers, but I heard he gave his life real heroically; took a bullet for a civilian in a bank robbery from hell." John smiled sympathetically at Kelly. "Sorry, man."

Kelly smiled sadly, probably thinking back on old memories. "Good 'ol Pete; he never did know when to call it quits." Kelly took a deep breath. North patted him on the back; Kelly offered him an appreciative smile. He turned back to John. "So what can I do for you, Officers? We have it pretty much covered here; fairly straightforward break-in; open and shut case, really."

John moved a few steps back from the building, as though surveying it. "What did the perp take?" he asked. He nodded as Kelly launched into an in-depth report on the incident and everything they knew so far, which was basically only that a break-in had, apparently, occurred and they had no suspects.

While John distracted the local fuzz, Dean slipped inside the store. The man seemed to have left, but the girl was there, sweeping up broken glass. She looked up when Dean entered.

Dean cleared his throat. "Don't you think you should leave that? Have the police gone over the scene for clues yet?"

The girl scoffed. "What is this, _Law and Order_? They aren't gonna find anything. It was some punk kid; he didn't even take anything." She eyed Dean. Normally, Dean enjoyed when women looked at him, but he was getting the distinct impression that she wasn't ogling him so much as sizing him up for a fight.

Her glare was growing steadily more uncomfortable, and Dean found himself a little bit tongue-tied. "Oh," he said lamely. He would've cursed at how idiotic he sounded, but the girl just laughed.

"Yeah, 'oh.' We don't get a lot of crime around here; I'm sure you can imagine. Anything out of the ordinary draws attention, no matter how inconsequential." She shrugged. "I'm Valerie, by the way."

Dean grinned. He loosened up considerably with the small prize of her name. "Dean Harshaw, State trooper. But I disagree; a pretty girl's shop being violated is far from inconsequential. In fact, if you'd like, I could open a State investigation, get to the bottom of this." Dean kept his tone teasing, flirting lightly. His father would kill him later, but he couldn't very well ignore a hot chick just sitting there, waiting to be swept off her feet. Living in a small town, Dean guessed she didn't get to see a lot of new faces.

A moment of sheer panic spread across Valerie's face. It was gone before Dean could process its presence and she was smiling again. She matched his teasing with her own. "Ooh, that'd be wonderful. But I don't want to be a bother; I'm sure you have enough to do, getting cats out of trees, helping old ladies cross the street …" Her eyes sparkled an alluring shade of blue.

Dean could almost forget what he had seen, but that wasn't in his training.

He hid his surprise, pretending he hadn't seen her friendly mask slip. He moved to the bar, taking a seat on a stool that had, curiously, had left out; the other four stools were pushed close to the counter. "Please; getting cats out of trees is the fire department's job. And helping old ladies across is street is just good manners."

Valerie gave a fake little gasp, placing her hand over her mouth. "My, my; a gentleman." She grinned.

Dean made a half-bow from his seat. "Indeed. I pride myself on my many gentlemanly qualities. For example, I always pay for dinner. I've also been known to get the door for my date and kiss her hand before bidding her goodnight."

Valerie moved to lean against the bar beside Dean. She placed her mouth by his ear, dropping her voice to a whisper. "That's funny; I didn't peg you as a take-it-slow kind of guy."

Dean turned his head slightly and whispered back. "Well, maybe you shouldn't judge people before you get to know them."

"Mmmhmm," Valerie giggled. She pushed off the counter and stooped the pick up the dust pan. Dean grinned at the view he got of her denim-clad rear; she had a pink butterfly sewn in sequins on the right buttock pocket.

"Dean! We're leaving; the local police have this one under control." John stuck his head in the door, frowning at what he saw.

Dean jumped up guiltily. His legs caught in the stool and he nearly face-planted. It was only his quick reflexes that kept him from the floor.

Valerie giggled again, hiding her smile behind her hand. John neither grinned nor giggled, and Dean knew he was in serious trouble.

"Let's go, Romeo." John shouted. Dean blushed – just barely, and in a manly way – and ran out after him, sparing a second to glance back at Valerie over his shoulder. She waved and smiled sweetly at him. He grinned back and winked cheekily.

John's voice called out a final warning and Dean booked it to the truck.

XXX

John Winchester was not amused. It was one thing to goof off a little between hunts, but Dean should know better than to let his focus slip like that in the middle of an investigation. Not to mention the fact that while he was staring at some girl's rear she had been sweeping up potentially valuable clues right from under his nose. No, John Winchester was not amused.

Dean slid into the truck, grinning brightly. He turned to find John staring straight ahead. "Dad, I think that girl's hiding something." He announced.

John didn't glance over, just grunted and backed the car out into the street.

They pulled onto the main road again under a heavy silence as Dean tried to figure out what had his father so ticked off. Of course Dean expected John to be mad, but John usually just went ahead and yelled and got it over with. This brewing quietly was new; it unnerved Dean. He cleared his throat loudly. John looked over.

"What, Dean?" John growled. He quickly returned his gaze to the road.

Dean shifted. "Is something wrong?" he asked nervously.

John huffed out an impatient breath. He turned onto a side road. "What would be wrong? I walk in to find you flirting in the middle of a con; what could be wrong with that?"

"You know, sarcasm doesn't suit you." Dean said, matter-of-factly. John didn't smile. Dean felt his own grin slip. He tried again. "Look, Dad, I wasn't goofing off. Yeah, I was flirting, but I was also gathering evidence. Like I said, something was off about that girl; she blew off the robbery like it was no big deal, and when I mentioned opening an investigation she panicked."

That drew John's attention. He looked at Dean and lifted an eyebrow. "Panicked how?"

Dean shrugged. "It was only there for a second, but she completely flipped out. She tried to cover it; that's what tipped me off. And there was just something … weird, about her. I'd bet if we took the EMF in there it'd go crazy." Adrenaline began pumping through Dean's veins again as he thought about the creepy restaurant. He wasn't able to sense supernatural activity with the power of his mind, or anything, but the place gave him the creeps; everything from the creepy mounted fish to the suspiciously passive owner. Dean had learned to trust his instincts, and his instincts told him to salt and burn the place.

"Did you notice anything else, or is this all supposition?" John demanded. From his tone, it was clear he was still royally ticked. John Winchester could turn grudge-carrying into an Olympic sport.

Dean nodded eagerly. "Yeah, one of the bar stools was out; someone was in there tonight. Scuffmarks around the doorway indicate a fight, but you would've seen that …" Dean paused for a moment, thinking. "And the girl was fully dressed, so the robbery didn't wake her up."

John allowed a small, proud smile, and Dean realized he had probably noticed all of those things and was just testing him. As if to confirm Dean's unspoken conclusion, John nodded curtly; "You're right; there was a fight outside. Both parties knew what they were doing, but it didn't last long. I think one of the fighters was the girl; you may have noticed the small cut on her left cheek, and the way she held her left wrist."

Truth be told, Dean hadn't noticed the cut; must have been covered with makeup. He had seen the careful way she moved her arm, though. It had definitely been broken. Dean knew how that felt, and he had picked up on the injury immediately.

"Good work, Dean." John acknowledged. "We'll have to wait and see what Bobby found, but I'd say we definitely have a place to start."

Dean leaned back in his seat, grinning once again.

XXX

Bobby was waiting for them at the meet-up spot, about five miles down the road. They were closer to the mountain here, and it loomed over them. The night painted the scene in chill shades of blue and black. Overhead, the moon was just beginning to wane.

"What kept ya?" Bobby demanded gruffly. He pushed off from his Chevelle and ambled over to join the Winchesters by the truck. All three gathered around the front end. Dean leaned against the car; John and Bobby stood free and alert.

John glanced briefly at Dean. "We ran into a few … distractions."

Dean tried not to blush as Bobby raised an eyebrow, but thankfully didn't comment. "I didn't find anything behind the store, 'cept some tooti-fruti candles, but that doesn't necessarily mean the girl is involved with the cult."

John grinned tightly, but there was no amusement in the expression. "Yeah, well, that combined with what Dean found does." Bobby gestured for him to continue, and John drew a deep breath. "The girl's wrist was broken, and there were signs of a struggle out front, but she said she didn't even see the kid who broke in. Dean said someone else had been there, and stuck around for a while, too. The girl didn't want an investigation, and she had ceremonial candles in her dumpster; sounds pretty guilty to me."

"Well … shit." Bobby pulled off his hat and then quickly slapped it back on. "Guess we found our way in, then."

Dean shook his head. "No," he said, drawing curious stares from both other men. "She was already suspicious; if we go back now she's gonna spoke and then we'll never find out where they meet."

"What if that shop _is_ the meet-'n-greet central? Maybe we should go back an' check it out again."

Bobby and Dean turned to John, seeking a third opinion. John was studying a crack in his truck's windshield intently, as though all the secrets of the universe were somehow contained in the tiny spider fracture, words no one could see written in the minute lines traced across the glass.

"Dad?" Dean prompted, "What do you think?"

"I think," John looked up. "We should take a look at Bobby's map, and see if we can't figure it out without letting on we're wise to the bastards who've been killing children. I don't wanna give them any time to regroup or get away. We are taking these people _down_."

There was no argument from either Dean or Bobby, and soon the map of the immediate area was spread out on the hood of John's truck. All three men leaned over it, scrutinizing the lay of the land.

After a moment, Dean pointed. "There. A cave, five miles from town; if ever there was a good place to hole up between kills, that'd be it."

John agreed, Bobby wasn't opposed to checking it out, and it didn't take long to figure the quickest way there and get back on the road.

As they bumped along, drawing ever closer to the ominous-looking mountain, Dean couldn't help fidgeting a little. He was pretty sure the rock only looked so freaky-ass terrifying because it was dark out; shadows did weird things to even the most harmless places. But it still had him on edge.

It was only a fifteen minute drive, and all too soon they were parked again and walking single file towards the very, very dark-and-creepy cave. Dean walked with caution behind Bobby; John was behind him, watching their backs, the only betrayal of his presence the whisper of his breath. Dean often wished he was half the hunter his father was, especially on nights like tonight.

They were all going to need to bring their A-game for this one; nothing like stumbling around in the dark to make you paranoid enough to shoot your partner or, worse yet, any innocent bystanders that got in the way. No more children had gone missing since the last one, who had turned up dead a week ago, so Dean didn't think collateral damage was going to be an issue, but he really didn't want to shoot his dad or Bobby, either.

And then there was the question of where, exactly, was Sam … Sam, the kid Dean had never met, and yet who shared his last name and had somehow worked his way into Dean's heart until the thought of not recovering him was absolutely unbearable. Dean told himself it was because Sam was Bobby's friend, and that meant something, but it just seemed … insufficient to describe the pull in his gut, the desperation to see the kid was alright.

Dean shook the feeling off and concentrated on his approach, eyes wary for signs of trouble.

The closer they came to the mouth of the cave, the harder it became for Dean to breath. A quick glance at John and Bobby showed that they were feeling it, too. The air was getting thicker. An acrid smell hung about them, and Dean could almost feel it seeping into his pores.

Bobby signaled that he was going in. Dean tightened his grip on his stun gun and kept to Bobby's tail.

The passage was narrow, belying the wide and tall entrance. Dean soon had to crouch, and his shoulders brushed against the slick walls. The stone was damp, and all three hunters had to concentrate to keep from slipping. After a few turned corners, the moonlight faded behind them and they were plunged into complete darkness which, paired with the suffocating smell that still filled the air, had them all glancing pointlessly over shoulders hunched against invisible threats. Only the tiny penlight Bobby had in his vest pocket saved them from going completely crazy in the blackness, but, not knowing how far in they'd have to go, Bobby insisted on only using it every few minutes to check their course, trying to save battery power.

The tunnel began to curve down after what Dean counted as three and a half minutes. If it had been hard to maintain stable footing before, now it was all but impossible. To make matters worse, the smell was growing stronger. Dean covered his mouth and nose with his left forearm. He gagged.

John gave a light shove between Dean's shoulders, an order to quiet. Dean complied without protest. They all knew that surprise was their only advantage here. If the cult heard them coming, they would be at the mercy of a bunch of psychopathic murderers; not somewhere they wanted to be.

Bobby turned on his light, and a split in the tunnel was reveal. To the right, it angled further down; to the left, it continued flat, but soon twisted around a corner and out of sight. Neither way was very appealing.

Bobby stopped and glanced back. His face was scarcely illuminated by the muted light, and his arched eyebrow was a silent question. Right or left? Down in the dark or around an unknown bend?

John jerked his head left. Bobby nodded and made the turn, Dean and John right behind him.

The chanting reached their ears first. It was haunting, otherworldly in a way that made Dean's skin crawl, and he had seen and heard some pretty scary shit in his life. It began to pick up in volume as they rounded the corner, growing until the power of it had all three hunters gripping their ears. The sound bounced off the walls, adding to the crescendo; still they pressed on.

Light began chasing shadows across their path, and Dean was a little afraid they'd be found out before they ever set foot in the cult's main gathering space. Some of the burning smell was explained as torches appeared every few feet, illuminating the tunnel and the symbols alternately carved and painted on the walls. Most of it was simple charms, but a few of the things Dean recognized had his skin crawling with the desire to turn tail and run as far from here as fast as possible. But he didn't.

As they finally came out of the semi-dark tunnel and into a large, open, fire-lit room, the sight that greeted them had all three seeing red and moving out of the shadows before conscious thought had even fully registered what they were seeing.

They had finally found Sam Winchester.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sam, Dean, John, or Bobby, but I _do_ own Eric and Officers Johnson and Ramen - Yay me!**

**A/N: So, I was more than a little pleased with the last chapter's cliffhanger ending ... and I know some of you weren't, hehe. Hopefully, this makes up for it; enjoy!  
Please see warnings in chapter one.**

**I'd just like to say thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story. It really means the world.**

_When Mary died, John wasn't prepared to take care of two young boys, much less a baby. Elizabeth took Sam for the weekend and just … never brought him back.  
__At the time, John thought it was for the best; sixteen years later, it seems it didn't much matter anyway._

* * *

Through heavy eyelashes, Sam took note of his surroundings.

The walls were gray – stone, rough and not somewhere people normally gathered, if the demonic symbols etched deep into the rock were anything to go by. Voices were pitched low, and Sam had counted ten so far, but that didn't mean there weren't more. The smell of burning eucalyptus and sulfur hung thick in the air, suffocating Sam and making feigning sleep difficult.

Whoever these people were – and Sam was only about eighty percent sure they even were_ human_ – they didn't seem to care one way or the other if Sam woke; two of them grabbed his arms and ankles roughly, carrying him across the room. Warmth from the fire seeped into Sam's right side, but his back and left side remained chilled from contact with the cold floor … and blood loss.

Naturally, the first thing Sam did after waking up in a strange place and surrounded by ill-meaning beings was assess his injuries. Two of his ribs were bruised, but not badly, and his head hurt like all hell was trapped inside and _pissed off_ about it. The faint coppery smell was coming from a gaping hole in his side, of which Sam had no recollection. Other than that, he felt peachy, and ready to kick whatever asses needed kicking to get out of this mess; but not before he came up with a plan.

"_Look who's awake; rise and shine, sweetie."_ The voice was feminine, and familiar; Valerie. A cold hand ran through Sam's hair, and his eyes flew open of their own accord. Valerie smiled down at him.

Sam opened his mouth to make a retort, something along the lines of _go to hell, bitch_, but he was gagged. That was … surprising, actually; he hadn't noticed until that moment. There weren't any ties or restraints on him otherwise; just the gag. Sam reached up to remove the cloth, which tasted as though it had been dunked in salt water … gross. Sam tried not to think about why that might be.

Valerie's hand shot out with unimaginable speed and locked his wrist in midair. She smiled indulgently and shifted, keeping a firm hold on Sam's arm. "Oh, Sam." She sighed with false regret. Her hand moved back to his hair; Sam tried reach up to stop her, but she just grabbed that wrist, too, and added it to her little collection, somehow leaving one hand free to continue petting him.

Any attempt at words was useless, but Sam still managed a seething glare. It got his point across.

Valerie laughed. It wasn't the same laugh she had used back outside Ingrid; it was darker, as though something volatile was lurking behind it, waiting to be unleashed on the unwary.

"I would say I'm sorry for what we're about to do to you, Sam, but I'm really not. And neither should you be. You have been chosen to participate in a momentous occasion, Sam." Valerie smiled ominously again. Her fingers twisted in Sam's hair, tugging sharply. "This will be our most important ceremony yet, and you are the guest of honor. Not many can even dream of fulfilling as great a purpose as you are being given." Her tone turned almost wistful and her hands stilled, as though she had forgotten where she was.

Seizing his moment, Sam threw himself away from Valerie, hoping to take advantage of her distraction. It didn't work.

Valerie seemed to come back to herself, and she restrained Sam easily. "You should be proud, Sam." She informed him, as though nothing had happened. She sounded dead serious.

This seemed to be the signal for two of her buddies to come and pull Sam to his feet, pushing, pulling, and dragging him towards a six-foot stone altar set up in the middle of the cavern. Sam fought back with everything he had, but it wasn't enough; he was weak and dizzy after only a few minutes of hard struggle. They called over a third man, and Sam was soon lashed to the altar, with ropes across his legs, chest, and tying his hands above him so that he was completely vulnerable.

Sam's head rolled lethargically on the smooth stone; it as all he could do to keep his eyes open. The smoke from the fire was getting bigger; it was beginning to fill the surprisingly large space, clogging the air with fumes that left a bitter taste and made Sam strangely sleepy.

None of Sam's kidnappers seemed to be having a problem staying awake or breathing; they probably inhaled whatever it was they were burning for kicks, while chanting their gothic, wannabe mumbo-jumbo. Most of the spells and wards Sam had seen on the walls were small potatoes; nothing really dangerous, but frightening in the sole fact that these freaks had somehow managed to get a hold of them.

The only really disturbing thing Sam had seen so far was drawn onto the altar he was now stretched out on, currently resting in the middle of his back. The symbol was drawn in white chalk, as it must be to work properly for such a ritual, and Sam was sweating bullets at what it meant.

A summoning ritual.

These idiots were trying to work a summoning ritual, with Sam as the unwilling sacrifice needed to draw the spirit in to where they could, theoretically, control it. But there was no way in hell any of them knew what they were doing, except maybe Valerie. The only way this was going to end was in disaster.

Looking around at all of the misled teenagers – most not much older than Sam himself – Sam hoped he wouldn't have to kill them; assuming, of course, that he could get free and gather enough adrenaline-fueled energy to do so.

Most of the kids didn't appear the type to be into this kind of thing, and about half looked terrified to even be there. Sam would bet his life – he was – that, given the choice, the odds came down to about four of them against him. Not great odds in his current state … pretty shitty odds, actually.

One of the girls stalked boldly across the room to stand by Sam's head. She was pretty; a redhead, with deep green eyes that were currently wide with excitement as she lifted a curved knife above her head and began chanting in Latin. She was one of the four Sam had picked out as true fanatics.

The foreign words quickly picked up, moving faster and louder as they ricocheted in the cave, and the girl began to sway. Her eyes had glazed over, lending an extra hint of crazy to the spectacle. Others joined in the chant, and the noise was deafening.

The knife was poised, glimmering in the firelight, and the green eyes above Sam mirrored the blade; cold and indifferent.

With a final, terrible cry, the arm swung, the knife came down, and Sam screamed.

XXX

John watched in horror as one of the psychopaths huddled in the cave brought the knife down. He was already moving, but he was too late. John yelled in fury and fear as the blow landed.

The blade pierced skin, and the scream struck John's heart.

Everything was a blur of motion and fire and angry faces as the cultists turned toward the intruders. Before John even knew what he was doing the redheaded girl with the knife – _just a kid, just a kid_ – was on the floor, arm bent at a strange angle John had seen too many times. He didn't pause to register the fact that her arm was broken, or even to wonder if he had killed her as he hurried to Sam's side.

Sam was pale; he had lost a lot of blood. John's hands moved like a conductor's, flitting rapidly in the air but not making contact with the body on the altar. John was afraid to touch the boy – his son – without knowing what exactly had been done to him; the last thing Sam needed right now was internal injuries.

The sounds of a quick battle engulfed the cavern for less than a minute before all fell silent. Most of the kids went willingly where Dean and Bobby told them to, obviously terrified of the hunters. They stayed in a tight knot, clinging to themselves and each other, making no sound but the occasional whimper.

Dean took up a post between Sam and his dad and the cultists, scowling fiercely and brandishing his weapon, daring anyone to make a move. A few of the boys glared at him challengingly, but Dean didn't think they'd try anything; they looked like high school kids, and they probably were. Not big bad supernatural creatures, but evil nonetheless. At the very least misguided, and if that was the case then Dean, John, and Bobby would need to single out the leader before they left and teach him or her a lesson in manipulating innocent kids.

Bobby walked slowly back to stand beside his longtime friend, looking down at the kid he had somehow grown attached to. Neither John nor Sam was moving. John had lifted Sam up, and was clutching the boy to his chest, crushing him, his face buried in Sam's hair.

It broke Bobby's heart, and he came damn close to letting a tear or two fall, but they couldn't afford such luxuries as loose emotion now; Sam needed medical attention.

John let Bobby pry Sam from his arms grudgingly, hovering as Bobby examined the wounds.

Bruised ribs, knife wound in his side – _that's probably where they got Sam's blood for the sacrificial knife coating_ – and a possible concussion, but by far the most worrying injury was the knife that was embedded to its hilt in Sam's shoulder. That would be a bitch to remove, but at least the girl's aim hadn't been better; without the distraction of their less-than-stealthy entrance, they might have been recovering a corpse, instead of treating a victim.

"Dean," Bobby called, glancing briefly at John; the other man didn't seem to hear him, focused completely on Sam. Bobby didn't blame him. "We gotta go – now."

"What about these idiots?" Dean asked, keeping his gun leveled on his captives. None of the kids seemed aware of the fact that it was only a stun gun, for which Dean was enormously grateful.

Bobby thought for a moment. "Leave 'em here. We'll seal 'em in an' call the cops." He ordered. Sam needed medical attention, and talking to the police would take too long, not to mention how awkward trying to explain all of this to the authorities would be.

Dean nodded and began backing towards the other hunters, eyes still on the cultists.

John lifted Sam gently, with all the care of a worried father, and headed for the door with Bobby in tow and Dean slowly bringing up the rear.

Before he followed Bobby out, Dean paused for a moment. "Now, if any of you try to leave before I say you can, I swear on my own grave that I _will_ shoot you. Got it?" he waited for the terrified nods and then turned and walked briskly after his father and his friend … and Sam.

XXX

Whoever thought the bland color schemes of hospital waiting rooms might be soothing should be fired immediately. And then shot … repeatedly.

Dean glanced over to where John was pacing, his agitation apparent. Dean would have questioned why John was so worried about a kid he had never even met, but he felt the exact same way; the only reason he wasn't wearing a twin rut beside his father was Bobby, who harrumphed grumpily until Dean sat back down. John either didn't hear Bobby, or didn't care enough to stop.

"Family of Samuel Winchester?" a nurse in green scrubs called out, peering around the room.

Dean and Bobby jumped up, but John beat them both to the nurse, who was looking a little bit intimidated by the three fierce men looming over him.

John got right up in the nurse's personal space, scowling impatiently. "Where is he? Is he alright?" he demanded harshly.

The nurse – his nametag said Eric – smiled pleasantly and placed a reassuring hand on John's arm. At John's glare of death he quickly reversed the movement. He cleared his throat uncomfortably before speaking. "Samuel is stable, and the doctor is confident that, in time, he will make a full recovery. However, before you can see him, I need you to answer a few questions."

Bobby moved to stand in front of the Winchester men, shouldering John roughly back. Eric looked relieved, though he tried valiantly to hide it. "What kinda questions?" Bobby asked.

"Well," Eric said somewhat nervously, fidgeting with his clipboard. "Sam came in with some … unusual injuries. When a patient is admitted with a giant hole in his side, we like to know how it got there."

"We already told you; he was helping my dad and I at a construction site and he tripped onto an exposed pipe." Dean supplied. The lie had been hastily fashioned on the way to the emergency room, and so far it had held, but any doctor would know the difference between an on-the-job injury and a knife wound. They had all just been hoping to get Sam and get out before the police were called –

… Too late.

Bobby touched Dean's shoulder, directing his attention to two police officers standing uncertainly in the doorway. Dean turned back to Eric and found the young man nearly slumping with relief as he spotted the authorities.

"Officers!" Eric called, his voice going up two octaves until it was almost a squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Officers, over here, please."

Dean cringed internally as the police gave him, John, and Bobby each a quick once-over. All three of them were dirty, and probably looked a mess.

"I'm Officer Johnson, and this is my partner, Officer Ramen." The darker of the two men introduced himself and his companion, who nodded genially. "I was told a teenage boy was admitted with a knife wound in his side?" he looked to Eric for confirmation.

Eric nodded. "Yes, this is his family; John Winchester, father, and Dean, Sam's brother. This is Bobby Singer, Sam's uncle."

Ramen studied John with silent appraisal. "You wanna tell us what happened, Sir?" he asked carefully.

Johnson nudged Ramen in the side. "Not here," he admonished. "Why don't we take this somewhere a little more private?"

Johnson turned to Eric, who hurried to lead the way to an unoccupied examination room. The nurse left them at the door, and Johnson motioned for the Winchesters and Bobby to follow Ramen in.

The room was decorated in shades of salmon, but it was at least better than the grey-and-blue motif of the waiting room. There were two chairs, one of which Bobby took. Dean sat on the exam table, legs hanging casually off the side, and John opted to stand. Ramen took the other seat and Johnson remained by the door, mimicking John's crossed arms and calculating expression.

"So, what happened?" Johnson asked finally, directing the question at John.

John shrugged. "Like we told the doctors, Sam was helping me and Dean at work and he fell onto a pipe. Kid's been all legs since last summer; uncoordinated."

"Doctor said it was a knife wound." Johnson pointed out evenly.

John stared the cop down, and Dean glanced at Bobby. The last thing they needed right now was a couple of pissed off police officers after their hide, and John seemed completely oblivious to how suspiciously he was acting. Bobby shrugged and kept his eyes on John.

Ramen seemed to notice Dean's deference to Bobby, because he aimed the next question at the grizzled hunter. "So, Mr. Singer," he drawled, tone almost disinterested but eyes appraising. "Where were you when Sammy was injured?"

"It's Sam." Dean corrected automatically. Everyone turned to stare at him, and he felt his face heat. "His uh, his name is Sam. Not Sammy." He clarified, clearing his throat embarrassedly. Dean wasn't sure why the officer not using the nickname was important, but for some reason … it just was.

Ramen nodded slowly, focusing on Dean now. "Alright then, Sam it is. Are you and Sam close, Dean?" he asked.

Dean shot a look at Bobby, unsure how to reply. He realized only after his eyes met Bobby's that such uncertainty from the supposed brother of the victim might make the police suspicious, and he hurried to answer. "Uh, yeah; yeah, Sam and I are real close." It sounded strained even to him, and he wasn't looking into a possible child abuse or attempted murder of a teenage boy.

Ramen and Johnson exchanged a glance, and Dean knew they were screwed.

"I think we'll need you all to come down to the station with us."

TBC


End file.
